Gaines understands then that it is he who needs to move first.

And so he does.

He is seated cross-legged, and he seems to grow from the ground effortlessly. He is naked. His body is dark with mud and blood and black-and-green, and his eyes are stark white against his visage. His hair is glued back against his scalp, and he feels like something from one of his own nightmares. He is outside himself, and he can see himself, and he is terrifying.

In the distance he can hear CH-47s. They are mounted with 20x102 mike-mike Vulcans. He can hear them as certainly as he can hear his own heart. Or can he?

Perhaps he is hearing nothing but the rush and chatter of his pulse, the blood in his veins, the sound of his pores opening in the warm moisture-drenched air.

And then he folds into the vegetation and the jungle swallows him. He understands that he has vanished from view and the watcher cannot see him and does not know where he has gone. Gaines flits from tree to tree, from shadow to shadow, and before he knows it, he is standing behind the watcher, and the watcher has become his prey. The watcher turns and holds out his hands, his eyes wide beneath the shadow of his coolie hat, and somehow Gaines has his rifle before him, the bayonet affixed, and he lunges forward with that blade. The steel punches through outstretched hands, the wounds in the pale flesh of the palms like stigmata, and everything is silent but for the ripping of flesh and the sound of the blood against the ground, against the trees, against his own face. His enemy falls, and he—Gaines—is over him like a wild thing. He has his knife in his hand, and he is hacking and sawing furiously. When he is done, he sees that he has made a ragged series of incisions from the throat to the navel, and suddenly—opening up, as if a zipper had been drawn—the snakes unfold and tumble out, dozens of them, all sizes and colors, and beneath the shadow of the coolie hat is the face of Nancy Denton, a taut smile, a bared-teeth rictus grin, and all the darkness and hatred of the war is there within her eyes.

And then Gaines woke.

He did not wake sweating. He did not lurch awkwardly from the mattress—heaving, retching, his mouth bitter with the imagined taste of blood, his nerves taut, his heart thundering.

When he woke, he was calm, and though he remembered vividly each fragmented second of the nightmare, though he saw every scene in slow motion as he replayed it, he did not torture himself with questions of significance.

He just lay there, and he remembered how it was to be beside someone.

Linda Newman, mother of the child that never was.

He had dreamed such dreams before, a long time ago. For a year or so following his return, the nightmares—vivid and terrifying—would throw him violently from the bed, and he would wake suddenly, startled, enraged even. He had tracked enemies in the boonies, and when he had found them, he had killed them. Often—possessing no discernible weapon, no gun, no blade—he had killed them with his hands.

Reason enough to sleep alone.

He did not wish to wake beside a corpse, their unnecessary and inexplicable death founded somewhere within a nightmare.

And then the dreams had stopped.

There had been times he’d wished for the dreams to return, terrible though they were, just so he could wake and realize that he was no longer there.

Now the girl had invaded his thoughts, his emotions, his mind.

Nancy Denton had joined the cast of characters—those who had died beside him, those he had killed, the dead he had seen lying in the mud.

It was four in the morning. Gaines rose and sluiced his face with cold water. He did not feel sick, despite the whiskey he had drunk. He knew he would not sleep again, and yet he lay down on the mattress and tugged the covers over him. Perhaps the last few hours before daylight would serve no purpose other than to delay the continuing and inevitable confrontation of Nancy Denton’s pointless and terrible death. As was always the case with murder, it resulted, ordinarily, in the death of both victim and perpetrator, one by the hand of a killer, the other by the hand of the state.

As Gaines closed his eyes against the gathering light, there was an echo in his mind—half-remembered, half-forgotten. Something that Webster had said, something about finding Nancy in a shack, just lying there in the doorway, and how he had buried her near running water.

Why running water? Why had he buried her near running water?

The question presented no immediate answer, and Gaines dismissed it from his mind. It was a detail, a simple detail, and there were so many other questions that begged to be answered first.

22

Even now, if I close my eyes and think as hard as I can, I can remember the feeling of sun on my face.

I can feel that warmth against my skin. I can smell the grass, the flowers in the field. I can hear birds somewhere in the distance.

I went down there with Nancy, and Michael took her hand for just a moment. He smiled at her and then at me, and we turned and started walking.

I know that when Nancy was with Michael, she saw little but him, but Michael was never like that. Michael had a heart the size of a house, and he made everyone feel special. That was just his way. He didn’t try. It came naturally.

Nancy was laughing. She was so excited, she could barely speak, but she spoke anyway. After just a few words, Michael started laughing and told her, “Slow down, Nance. Slow down there.”

Michael was all of thirty or thirty-one years old, and Nancy was going on sixteen. Though it seemed strange that two people could be so far apart in years, it did not seem strange to anyone who knew them. He never did lay a hand on her. If nothing else, Michael was a true gentleman. You could see that in his eyes, in the way he permitted Nancy to kiss him on the cheek every once in a while and nothing more than that. He behaved like her older brother. That sounds weird, but that’s the only way I can tell it. He wasn’t her father, nor her uncle, nothing like that. He was like a cousin maybe, someone close, but not too close. He had just made a decision. Nancy was the girl for him. This was the woman with whom he planned to spend the rest of his life, and if he had to wait a while for her to become that woman, then so be it. For Michael, Nancy was worth a thousand years of waiting, no question about it.

And Nancy knew too. Maybe she had known from the first moment he stepped off the train that day in 1945.

But when we were together—me and Matthias, Nancy and Michael—it was as if we were all the same age. Catherine came along sometimes—but only when her father told her to keep an eye on us. Eugene and Della floated around the edges of our little world, and sometimes they were involved and sometimes they were not. But no one frowned on our friendship. Perhaps folks believed Michael was a good influence on these rowdy, troublemaking teenagers. We were all from different families, different backgrounds. Nancy’s mom didn’t have two quarters in the same place at the same time. My mom was just as ordinary as ordinary people could be, and yet none of it mattered. Matthias’s family had more money than anyone could spend in a dozen lifetimes, and yet he dressed the same as us and he talked the same as us, and only when he brought down the old Victrola and the records, only when he turned up with a picnic hamper for us to share by the river, was it obvious that he had more than we did. Age was not a barrier, nor was money or possessions or what name we were given. We were just getting on with living the best way we knew how, and it wasn’t complicated.

I remember those years—just a couple of them—that seemed to last forever. It was as if the sun shone each and every day, and it shone for us. And even when it rained and was cold, there was a warmth in friendship and fellowship that defied the elements. I know I look back with rose-colored glasses—we always do when we recall our childhood—but we really did seem to be blessed with something special. Me and Nancy and Michael and the Wade clan, as we used to call them. The best times. The very best times we could ever have wished for.