"Croyd? He got himself invited to dinner at Ngo's."
"You didn't want to go?"
Hannah shook her head. "No. I just felt like ... thinking."
"Are you still having nightmares about the bomb?"
"No. But it's nice of you to ask."
Quasiman took a step toward her. His hand lifted as if he were going to touch her as he had after the bomb in Saigon, then halted in mid-motion. "You sound sad," he said. "Didn't you find out anything this afternoon?"
Hannah gave a soft laugh at that. She moved her hand away from his. "I found out nothing, and also more than I bargained for. I'm just not sure What it means. You've sure set me on a strange course, you and your talk. The trouble is, it's starting to scare me, too." Hannah looked up at the sky - she didn't know if she'd ever seen so many stars. Yet like the prejudice and hatred she was uncovering, they too had always been there, hidden but unseen. "I think we've hit a dead end with Faneuil," she told him. "No records, no problems. Nothing. Dead men don't talk."
"But they can," Quasiman replied, softly and earnestly. He was looking at the sky also. "With the right person they can. I know how, Hannah...."
***
It seemed so easy in the old horror movies.
They took a pair of kerosene lanterns from behind the bar. In the back of Croyd's jeep they found a medical kit, a crowbar, and a shovel. Thus armed, Hannah and Quasiman went out into the field behind the village. Quasiman was a tireless, powerful worker, but he had his own limitations. Twice they had to stop: once when Quasiman found that he couldn't lift either arm because a major muscle group in his back had phased out, and again when his left leg disappeared. Both times, the episode was short, and Hannah only had to remind Quasiman of what they were doing a few times. Even so it was several hours before the shovel made a harsh tchunk! as it struck wood.
In that time, they'd piled up an impressive amount of earth, made a fair amount of noise, and acquired an audience of villagers. Hannah found it blackly amusing: a circle of Awed Asian faces watching a cliche in motion: the middle of the night, a hunchback digging up a grave in the light of a lantern held in the hand of a young woman. Croyd came up about the time Quasiman struck the casket, Ngo Dinh Yie in tow. Croyd stopped and let out a horse laugh. "Vell," he said, in an atrocious Germanic accent. "Haf you got ze brain for me, Igor?"
"As soon as you stop laughing at your own jokes, give us a hand with this," Hannah told him. "Bring that crowbar."
"Ja, Frau Frankenstein. Did anyone ever tell you you're lovely when you're macabre?" Croyd picked up the crowbar and walked over to look down into the hole, where Quasiman was standing on top of the rough wooden casket. "Mind if I ask what you're after? I mean, it's obvious enough what you intend to do, but why?" His tail brushed the length of her leg.
Hannah ignored it. "We need a ring."
"You could've asked me. There's a thousand jewelry stores back in Saigon. This is going about it the hard way."
Hannah glared at him. "All right," Croyd said at last. He hopped down into the open grave with Quasiman. Hannah came down after him with three handkerchiefs soaked in smelling salts. "Here," she said. "This is going to be bad."
It was. The smell of corruption hit them like a sledgehammer as soon as the lid was pried open. The handkerchiefs were little protection; Hannah, who at least had some small experience of decomposing bodies, gagged but managed to hold it down. Croyd struggled, then lost his supper to the side. Almost all the faces which had been looking down at them from above disappeared quickly. Quasiman alone seemed unaffected.
Hannah took a slow, deep breath into the handkerchief, men shone the light in. The face was unrecognizable, flesh rotting and peeling away from the bone. The wood had let in moisture: a green fuzz hung around the body's neck like a fur collar and mushrooms sprouted from his chest. The hands folded over the moldy suit were almost down to bone. In the lamplight, a ring glittered on the right hand: a class ring with a blue stone, inset with diamonds. "I'll do it, Hannah," Quasiman said.
"No," she told him. "I'll do it. Here, hold this." She gave the joker the lamp, then reached into the coffin with trembling fingers. She snatched at the ring, grimacing as the fingerbones broke apart from dried tendons. She slammed the lid down again and let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "That was gross," she said. "I sure as hell hope this was worth it." She shuddered "Let's get this done and over with - I have to take a bath."
She started to climb out of the grave. One face was still looking down at them, framed in stars: Ngo Dinh Yie. He was staring at the ring in Hannah's hand.
***
"Anything to declare?"
"A few articles of clothing," Hannah said. "Maybe a hundred dollars' worth. That's all."
The customs agent - his name tag said FIELDING - snapped shut her passport. He tapped it against his palm. Hannah's purse was still open before him, and Hannah tried to avoid looking at it - tried to pretend that it wasn't important. "Ms. Davis," Fielding said. "Would you please step out of line and follow me?"
"Wait a minute -" Hannah said. Her stomach was suddenly knotted; her breath tight. She could feel sweat beading at her hairline. Her fellow passengers were watching, and she oould feel the mixture of fascination and irritation coming from them.
"Please, ma'am. You're holding up the rest."
Fielding led her to a small office, opened the door, and ushered her in. Another customs official, seated behind a desk, nodded to them. Her passport and purse were given to the man, then the door was shut behind them. The agent perused the passport. "Ms. Hannah Davis?"
"And you're ... ?"
"Agent Stone. I need to ask you a few questions. You're returning from Free Vietnam?"
"Yes. Is there a problem? I had a personal invitation to visit the country from Ambassador Ngu, Prime Minister Meadows, and President Moonchild."
Stone smiled. "Yes, ma'am, we know. However, a Free Vietnam state official contacted us. They are investigating a report that a small group of Americans recently plundered an old grave in their country - among the stolen items was a ring. We also had a tip from another source that someone of your description would be smuggling it in. I wonder if you have a receipt for the ring that Agent Fielding found in your purse?"
Hannah tried to keep her expression noncommittal. "No, I don't. I didn't buy it. It was given to me several years ago. As you can see, I wasn't trying to hide the ring or smuggle it past. The ring wasn't stulled in the lining of my coat or inside my shoe heel, Agent Stone. It was lying in the bottom of my purse. The ring's mine."
Stone reached into the purse and pulled out the ring. He placed it on the table in front of Hannah. "Yours?" he said. "Odd. This looks like a man's ring. Would you mind putting it on?"
Hannah didn't move. Her stomach churned and she fought not to show it. She looked at Stone blandly. "I don't have to; it won't fit. The ring belonged to ... an old lover of mine. He died in an auto accident. I keep it for its sentimental value, not to wear. That's why it's in my purse."
"Aahh." Stone drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm afraid that I'll need to keep the ring for a few days, until we can verily with Saigon that this isn't the stolen item. We will, of course, give you a receipt ..."
"No!" Hannah protested. "You can't do that. That's not right."
Stone almost smiled. "I'm afraid that under the circumstances we both can and must, Ms. Davis. I can assure you that the ring will be returned to you just as soon as we hear from someone in Free Vietnam."