Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty. Tess Gerritsen

you are! You’re trying to protect him. That’s why you keep ignoring the evidence.”

      “He wasn’t a traitor!”

      “You still love him, don’t you?”

      She turned sharply and walked away. Guy was right beside her. “What’s wrong?” he said. “Did I hit a nerve?”

      “Why should I care about him? He walked out on us.”

      “And you still feel guilty about it.”

      “Guilty?” She stopped. “Me?”

      “That’s right. Somewhere in that little-girl head of yours, you still blame yourself for his leaving. Maybe you had a fight, the way kids and dads always do, and you said something you shouldn’t have. But before you had the chance to make up, he took off. And his plane went down. And here you are, twenty years later, still trying to make it up to him.”

      “Practicing psychiatry without a license now?”

      “It doesn’t take a shrink to know what goes on in a kid’s head. I was fourteen when my old man walked out. I never got over being abandoned, either. Now I worry about my own kid. And it hurts.”

      She stared at him, astonished. “You have a child?”

      “In a manner of speaking.” He looked down. “The boy’s mother and I, we weren’t married. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of.”

      “Oh.”

      “Yeah.”

      You walked out on them, she thought. Your father left you. You left your son. The world never changes.

      “He wasn’t a traitor,” she insisted, returning to the matter at hand. “He was a lot of things—irresponsible, careless, insensitive. But he wouldn’t turn against his own country.”

      “But he’s on that list of suspects. If he’s not Friar Tuck himself, he’s probably connected somehow. And it’s got to be a dangerous link. That’s why someone’s trying to stop you. That’s why you’re hitting brick walls wherever you turn. That’s why, with every step you take, you’re being followed.”

      “What!” In reflex, she turned to scan the crowd.

      “Don’t be so obvious.” Guy grabbed her arm and dragged her to a pharmacy window. “Man at two o’clock,” he murmured, nodding at a reflection in the glass. “Blue shirt, black trousers.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Absolutely. I just don’t know who he’s working for.”

      “He looks Vietnamese.”

      “But he could be working for the Russians. Or the Chinese. They both have a stake in this country.”

      Even as she stared at the reflection, the man in the blue shirt melted into the crowd. She knew he was still lingering nearby; she could feel his gaze on her back.

      “What do I do, Guy?” she whispered. “How do I get rid of him?”

      “You can’t. Just keep in mind he’s there. That you’re probably under constant surveillance. In fact, we seem to be under the surveillance of a whole damn army.” At least a dozen faces were now reflected there, all of them crowded close and peering curiously at the two foreigners. In the back, a familiar figure kept bouncing up and down, waving at them in the glass.

      “Hello, Daddy!” came a yell.

      Guy sighed. “We can’t even get rid of him.”

      Willy stared hard at Guy’s reflection. And she thought, But I can get rid of you.

      MAJOR NATHAN DONNELL OF the Casualty Resolution team had shocking red hair, a booming voice and a cigar that stank to high heaven. Guy didn’t know which was worse—the stench of that cigar or the odor of decay emanating from the four skeletons on the table. Maybe that’s why Nate smoked those rotten cigars; they masked the smell of death.

      The skeletons, each labeled with an ID number, were laid out on separate tarps. Also on the table were four plastic bags containing the personal effects and various other items found with the skeletons. After twenty or more years in this climate, not much remained of these bodies except dirtencrusted bones and teeth. At least that much was left; sometimes fragments were all they had to work with.

      Nate was reading aloud from the accompanying reports. In that grim setting, his resonant voice sounded somehow obscene, echoing off the walls of the Quonset hut. “Number 784-A, found in jungle, twelve klicks west of Camp Hawthorne. Army dog tag nearby—name, Elmore Stukey, Pfc.”

      “The tag was lying nearby?” Guy asked. “Not around the neck?”

      Nate glanced at the Vietnamese liaison officer, who was standing off to the side. “Is that correct? It wasn’t around the neck?”

      The Vietnamese man nodded. “That is what the report said.”

      “Elmore Stukey,” muttered Guy, opening the man’s military medical record. “Six foot two, Caucasian, perfect teeth.” He looked at the skeleton. Just a glance at the femur told him the man on the table couldn’t have stood much taller than five-six. He shook his head. “Wrong guy.”

      “Cross off Stukey?”

      “Cross off Stukey. But note that someone made off with his dog tag.”

      Nate let out a morbid laugh. “Not a good sign.”

      “What about these other three?”

      “Oh, those.” Nate flipped to another report. “Those three were found together eight klicks north of LZ Bird. Had that U.S. Army helmet lying close by. Not much else around.”

      Guy focused automatically on the relevant details: pelvic shape, configuration of incisors. “Those two are females, probably Asian,” he noted. “But that one…” He took out a tape measure, ran it along the dirt-stained femur. “Male, five foot nine or thereabouts. Hmm. Silver fillings on numbers one and two.” He nodded. “Possible.”

      Nate glanced at the Vietnamese liaison officer. “Number 786-A. I’ll be flying him back for further examination.”

      “And the others?”

      “What do you think, Guy?”

      Guy shrugged. “We’ll take 784-A, as well. Just to be safe. But the two females are yours.”

      The Vietnamese nodded. “We will make the arrangements,” he said, and quietly withdrew.

      There was a silence as Nate lit up another cigar, shook out the match. “Well, you sure made quick work of it. I wasn’t expecting you here till tomorrow.”

      “Something came up.”

      “Yeah?” Nate’s expression was thoughtful through the stinking cloud of smoke. “Anything I can help you with?”

      “Maybe.”

      Nate nodded toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

      They walked outside and stood in the dusty courtyard of the old military compound. Barbed wire curled on the wall above them. A rattling air conditioner dripped water from a window of the Quonset hut.

      “So,” said Nate, contentedly puffing on his cigar. “Is this business or personal?”

      “Both. I need some information.”

      “Not classified, I hope.”

      “You tell me.”

      Nate laughed and squinted up at the barbed wire. “I may not tell you anything. But ask anyway.”

      “You were on the repatriation team back in ’73, right?”

      “Seventy-three