Garden of Lies (45 page)

me touch him.

Rachel shuddered, a spasm that caused her hands to shake. The IV needle she was holding

slipped from her grasp, clattering to the concrete floor.

Get a hold of yourself,
she commanded.
You’re a doctor, not a soldier. Your job is to heal. It’s

as simple as that.

She tore open a cellophane packet containing a fresh needle, and grasped the boy’s limp,

blood-smeared wrist, searching for a vein. He might need four pints of blood, but it looked as if

his wounds weren’t as bad as she’d first thought. Perhaps surgery wouldn’t even be necessary.

She’d clean and debride, sew him up. Then—

Something wet struck her cheek.

Rachel, horror-stricken, looked up and saw he was grinning, [266] his lips drawn back in a

rictus of triumph, flecked with bloody spittle.

Shaking, Rachel grabbed a clean strip of gauze and wiped her cheek where he’d spit on her.
Oh

dear God, this isn’t happening, it can’t be happening. I’m in control
—

There was a spiraling sensation in her head, and everything went gray and wavy, as if she were

looking through dirty gauze curtains. She felt that if she didn’t lie down, she would pass out. She

hadn’t been off her feet in twenty-four hours.

Now the boy was shouting, clearly a stream of venom aimed at her.

Rachel backed away slowly, the eighteen-gauge needle still in her hand.

Her glance caught the Viet Cong soldier who stood guard at the entrance to the ward.

Something in his eyes chilled her to the bone ... he looked at her as a snake might regard a rabbit

while deciding whether to make a meal of it or not.

I was useful to them four days ago, with their wounded overflowing the ER ... but it’s tapering

off now ... and Lily said she heard their commander talking about bringing in their own doctors.

So who knows how much longer before I’m expendable to them? And then what?

Now Lily was taking over.
“Yên lang chó!”
she scolded sharply.
Silence, dog.
She plucked the

needle from Rachel’s grasp, and jammed it into the NVA’s arm. Lily looked as exhausted as

Rachel felt. Strands of oily black hair that had come loose from her bun trailed down the ivory

stem of her neck. Her eyes were glassy and threaded with capillaries. The front of her uniform

stiff with dried blood.

When had any of them last slept? The four days since Tieng Sung was taken seemed like three

years. The village now full of VC. How could she have known it would turn out like this, when

she’d volunteered to stay behind, during last week’s evacuation, to care for those few too sick to

be moved? Now the worst of it was over, but skirmishes still brought a trickle of wounded in

every day.

She thought of Brian, and for a brief instant, she felt stronger, more alive than she had in days.

Thank heaven at least he’d gotten out in time.

Then the gray despair swallowed her again. God, how she missed him. She saw him in her

mind, his silvery eyes, the gaunt [267] blade of his face. The look of infinite sadness he had given

her as he was hoisted aboard the chopper to Da Nang.

Gone. And probably she’d never see him again. And, oh, that hurt. It hurt so much more than

she could have imagined.

But she mustn’t let herself collapse. Not now. These VC were human beings, and they needed

her. And as long as she helped them ... they surely would let her alone.

Rachel moved on to the next stretcher.
“Bác-si,”
she said, by way of introduction, to a wizened

little old man who gazed up at her with flat obsidian eyes.
Doctor. It means I’m here to help you,

no matter how much both of us hate the idea. Get the message?

Apparently he didn’t. His eyes remained blank as spent cartridges. He looked a hundred years

old, and the expression on his shrunken monkey’s face said he could live another hundred and see

nothing more that would surprise him.

Not badly wounded, compared to the others. A deep lateral gash in his leg, looked like a knife

wound, a deep one, from knee to groin.

But that face ...

“Anh bao nhieu tuoi?”
she asked him in her halting Vietnamese.
How old are you?

In a voice as flat as those eyes, he answered,
“Muói chin.”

Nineteen.

Oh dear Christ ...

Rachel fought the hysterical urge to giggle. She thought that if she didn’t get out of here soon,

she was more likely to lose her mind than her life.

Brian clung to the edge of his seat as the jeep plunged through a pothole big enough to sink a

water buffalo. He braced himself against the spine-snapping jolt. Christ. And he’d thought the

main road was bad. Compared to this, that had been a freshly paved expressway.

“You sure he knows where he’s going?” Brian yelled at Dan Petrie over the roar of the engine,

while keeping his eyes fixed on Nguyen, on the back of their Vietnamese driver’s head.

They weren’t on any Rand McNally road map, that was for [268] damn sure. They’d seen no

signs of civilization for at least five kilometers. This was what Dorfmeyer, a platoon buddy, used

to call Cold Sweat Country. Nothing but towering teaks and mangroves wreathed in liana vine,

waist-high ferns and elephant grass. Perfect for ambush.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Dan yelled back cheerfully. “But why worry, we’ll know soon

enough.”

Brian watched Nguyen steer, with remarkable agility, around another enormous pothole. The

road, more of a path really, was barely wide enough for the jeep, and the swerve sent them

lurching and fishtailing over the berm, leaving a trail of flattened grass and churned mud in their

wake.

Why worry.
The hundredth time he’d heard Petrie say those words over the past two days. As if

they were riding the D train to Sheepshead Bay. Christ. At any moment they could be killed. But

Dan Petrie, God only knew how, had gotten them this far safely.

First, the flight to Saigon. Petrie somehow had wrangled a phony set of orders passing Brian

off as another reporter from his news service, and then had gotten them on a C-130 full of raw

recruits. Amazing luck, until a lieutenant-colonel from Brian’s division asked to see his papers.

Jesus, how he had sweated blood then! But the CO, looking right at him, had passed him through.

Brian realized what he must look like. He probably wouldn’t have recognized
himself.
Forty

pounds lighter, maybe more. The cherry he’d been six months ago must’ve looked as much like

him now as Ho Chi Minh.

Six hours later, Petrie’s buddy from
Stars and Stripes
had popped into the airport officer’s

lounge and led them to a Chinook chopper. Soon Da Nang, a bird’s-eye view of blue water and

khaki-colored beaches fringed in green, pretty as any postcard. No one would have known that

right nearby people were killing each other.

Their luck ran out, or so it seemed to Brian, when Dan tried to con a motor pool sergeant into

loaning them a jeep. But Dan just pulled another rabbit out of his hat, this time in the form of

some brand-new girlie magazines and a pack of opium-laced cigarettes, and the jeep was theirs.

And then hiring this driver, Nguyen, was another Petrie inspiration ... or so Brian had thought

at the time.

[269] Back where they’d turned off the highway, Brian thought, was for sure where their luck

had ended. He’d agreed with Petrie then, it would be safer taking a back way to Tien Sung. Not

so traveled or heavily patrolled. But now he feared they’d taken the wrong route. ...

They were in Charlie territory, he could feel it. His scalp felt tight, shrunken. And if his balls

climbed any higher, they’d be lodged in his throat.

“Second thoughts?” Petrie asked, those bolted-in blue eyes of his peering at Brian from under

the brim of his cap.

“No,” Brian answered. This might well get them all killed, but he had to at least try and get to

Rachel.

“She
must
be something then.” Petrie began whistling the theme from
Bridge on the River

Kwai.

Brian concentrated on the narrow track ahead. Any second they might hit a mine. Or get picked

off by snipers. Christ, he wished he had his M-16. Or even just a pistol. But in Da Nang, Dan had

insisted no weapons. Civilians—here, he’d pushed his face in front of Brian’s—that’s how they

were going in. That was their protection, and their only hope, lousy as it was. Besides, even with

a couple of rifles, against VC snipers they wouldn’t have a prayer.

Petrie’s words had given Brian an idea, though. There could well be other weapons besides

guns. On the afternoon of the day before they were to leave Da Nang, he had visited a Catholic

church in the heart of the city. He recalled now how the priest, a slender Eurasian who spoke

English with a French accent, had led him through a warren of narrow stone corridors, then

outside to a small enclosed garden. Stone walls blanketed in morning glories and honeysuckle,

some kind of mossy grass that grew in hummocks amid carefully placed rocks, a small pond

studded with water lilies set in the middle of it all like a jewel. The loveliest garden Brian had

ever seen. On a teak bench under the shade of a hibiscus tree, Father Sebastian served him bitter

Chinese tea, and afterwards Brian knelt with him in the soft grass and prayed. He’d felt far away

from God, but the ancient words and cadences had comforted him, as if his mother had laid her

hand on his brow. Afterwards, the priest sent him on his way with a blessing and the thing Brian

had come for [270]
...
the thing that might ensure their safety, he hoped. Under his jacket now. He

had it hidden. Not even Petrie knew.

Throwing Brian forward against the dash, the driver braked to a sudden halt.

About thirty yards ahead, someone was blocking the road, a kid in black pajamas and thongs.

He looked about sixteen, and could have been a villager on his way to the rice paddies ... except

he was carrying a rifle. A Soviet AK-47.

“Dùng lai!”
the boy commanded.

Brian watched, feeling helpless, every muscle wound tight, as Nguyen leaped nimbly from the

driver’s seat and trotted over to him, mud sucking at the heels of his sandaled feet.

A burst of singsong Vietnamese followed between the two, with lots of wild gesturing back

and forth.

“Don’t make a move,” Dan whispered, laying a hand on Brian’s arm. “Just smile. Smile like

you just got picked runner-up in the bloody Miss America pageant.”

Brian did. He smiled so hard he thought his face would forever freeze into this position. And

all the while, he held the rest of himself rigid too, his muscles cramping, sweat dribbling off his

forehead, terror knotting his insides.

Abruptly, Nguyen turned, and headed back to the jeep. His expression tight, eyes narrowed

with scorn.

Petrie swore softly under his breath. “It’s no bloody good. He won’t let us pass. We’re lucky he

didn’t shoot us.” After a short pause, he added grimly, “Unless maybe he’s saving the best for

last.”

Brian thought of Rachel. He
had
to get to her. He had to chance it.

Suddenly it was as if his every muscle had fused into one, galvanizing him into action.

He tore his arm from Dan’s grip, and leapt out. Too late, he realized he should have moved

more cautiously. There was a spurt of orange flame. A sound like a drop of water hitting a red-hot

griddle. Brian felt a hot lick of air graze his cheek.

The warm mud stank of manure. He was on his belly, arms curled protectively over his head,

the still-hot mouth of the semi-automatic’s barrel pressed against the side of his neck.
I’m going

to die. After all this. Shot in the road like a rabbit. Jesus Christ, what a waste.

[271] After an excruciating time of lying still and wondering what it would feel like to die, he

realized that might not happen ... at least not immediately. He lowered his arms and raised his

head. He was confronted by filthy feet wearing thongs. Slowly, Brian lifted himself onto his

knees, holding his arms up, palms out, to show he meant no harm. Now, looking up into the

round dusky-skinned face of his captor, he saw that the kid was as scared as he was.

Brian, taking a chance, gestured to show that he wanted to open his jacket. The boy brought up

the rifle, pointing it squarely at Brian’s forehead ... then he nodded.

Brian unzipped his windbreaker.

Underneath, he was wearing a priest’s black shirt and clerical collar.

He made the sign of the cross, praying with greater terror than he ever had in the hundreds of

times he’d knelt before the altar of Holy Martyrs that this boy was—or at least had been—

Catholic, and not Buddhist.

His heart thundered in his ears, and the sweat now was dripping off his nose, his chin. A swarm

of gnats buzzed, maddening, stinging him. But he dared not brush them away. He remained

perfectly still. He saw a kingfisher swoop down from a tall tree, the sun catching on its wings in a

blaze of iridescent colors.

After an eternity, the boy slowly, stiffly, lowered his rifle. He gestured for Brian to stand.

Cautiously, reverently even, the boy reached out and touched a forefinger to the Saint

Christopher’s medal that dangled over Brian’s collar.