Then Nguyen Hy took the stage to a rousing hand of applause. He welcomed everyone, first in Vietnamese, then English. He said that freedom would never perish, and neither would America or Vietnam. “We have come here to pledge our support to those great countries, and for the Voice of Freedom — Li Frye!”
The crowd cheered; the applause rose. The band struck up a number, which he recognized as one of Li’s — “Freedom’s Bones.” It was an instrumental version, her voice replaced by an electric guitar. Frye could see her face on the banners, lilting in the breeze.
He listened to Nguyen’s fevered voice again. Hy said that the kidnapping was executed by Communist agents of Hanoi, enemies of freedom, Moscow-fed animals out to destroy the Vietnamese people. The crowd listened quietly, then stirred. The band started up again, another Li Frye song. Nguyen exhorted the people to support the cause of freedom. His arms were raised heavenward, his hands open as if to draw blessing directly out of the sky.
Frye saw Albert Wiggins standing near the CBS news van, scanning the plaza balconies with binoculars. The reporter was talking with one of the CFV girls. Bennett wiped the sweat from his forehead, then stood clumsily on his crutches. “I’m on for about two minutes.” he said. “If the phone rings, come get me. Don’t answer it. Don’t touch it.”
Through the trailer window, Frye watched his brother labor up the back steps of the stage as Nguyen introduced him. A fresh peal of applause rose as Bennett stepped into the bright lights and, balancing with difficulty, raised his hands. Frye could hear Bennett’s voice, loud and clear over the microphone. He thanked them for being there. He told them that courage didn’t exist without fear. He told them that Li was here in spirit, and that her body and her laughter and her voice would be with them again soon. “You are full of power and grace,” he said. “Never give up.”
He stood there as the band played “Star Spangled Banner,” then turned from a surge of applause and headed toward the trailer. Frye helped him through the door and onto the small bed. Bennett’s face was dripping sweat, and his pupils were big. He loosened his necktie, brought the phone to his lap, and checked his watch. “Any minute, Chuck.”
Frye could hear Nguyen, his voice rising, the clapping and shouts, swells of approval. He could see an old man dragging an effigy of Vietnamese President Truong Ky up a center aisle toward the stage. It was dressed in black pajamas with red hammers and sickles all over them.
The crowd came to its feet as the old man moved toward the podium. Nguyen paused and watched.
The phone was buzzing. Bennett lifted two crossed fingers to Frye, held them in the air, then picked up the handset. Through the trailer window, Frye could see Nguyen now, standing on the stage as the old man shuffled the last twenty feet toward him. A dozen celebrants had stood to form a loose gauntlet as they passed by. They yelled and spit on the dummy, its stuffed head bobbing toward Hy, spittle wobbling through stage light toward the effigy. The old man covered himself from the barrage. The crowd was chanting, Thà Chết không làm nô lệ, thà chệt không làm nô lệ... When Frye turned back to Bennett, his brother’s crossed fingers were still in the air, but his face had gone pale. He stared straight at Frye. He was nodding.
Nguyen hoisted the dummy onto the stage, to a ferocious chorus of cheers. He held it by the neck, out at arm’s length, waving the face toward the seats.
“We will resist! We will unify Vietnam! We will struggle until freedom is ours!”
Bennett gently put down the phone. He looked at his brother with something that Frye had never seen before. It took him a moment to realize what it was. It was fear.
Frye could scarcely hear what Bennett said next. The crowd hit a frenzy as Nguyen prepared to decapitate the dummy with a plastic sword. Bennett spoke softly. “Thach knew about kilometer twenty-one. He was ready for us.”
Frye reached down to help Bennett off the bed. He glanced outside as Hy lifted the dummy for execution. Something went wrong with the stage lights. For a fractional second, Hy and the doll were so brightly lit, blanched in a flash of white so pure that Frye’s eyes burned.
Then they were blown apart by a concussive orange blast, emanating from the head of the effigy. The trailer rocked, and Frye slammed against the side. Nguyen’s outstretched arm, his shoulder, and his head disassembled in a bright shower that sprayed all directions at once. His knees straightened, his torso jerked back and collapsed. The plastic sword shot skyward. The dummy jumped into the air, as if yanked by invisible wires. The people in the first rows turned to run.
As the crowd’s cheers turned to wails, Frye struggled outside. Crawley had already dragged Hy off the stage and onto the ground. The cops were converging, side-arms drawn, ordering everyone down, but the people streamed around them toward Bolsa. Frye watched Bennett join the surging mass.
Half a dozen bodies lay scattered by the first row of seats, some moving, some screaming, some inert. The network newsmen were still taping. Westminster police and FBI agents ran around, guns drawn, looking for someone to arrest, A hundred feet from the exit, a group of refugees had caught the old man. Frye watched him vanish in the dark mob, fists pounding away at the gray, sinking head.
He ripped off his coat and pressed it onto an old Vietnamese woman who was laying face up on the asphalt, her chest smoking. He looked for Bennett, but couldn’t find him. Someone beside him started moaning. He could see Crawley carrying a boy toward the stage, limp head and feet cascading over his arms. The CFV girl tried to tie a Vietnamese flag around a man’s bleeding thigh while a woman stood over him and wailed. An FBI man, pistol in one hand and a radio in the other, screamed at two others, who seemed lost for purpose. Then Frye spotted Bennett climbing into his van. Minh was on stage with Wiggins now, trying to sound assured as he spoke into the microphone, telling the people to proceed in an orderly exit toward the boulevard. Frye lifted his coat, took one look at the crater in the woman’s chest, and covered her face. A camera man steadied his lens at Frye and told him to pull the coat away. For a moment Frye just knelt there and watched Bennett’s van drive away, barging through the crowd to the avenue.
He helped Donnell get Hy to a paramedic van, but there wasn’t enough of Nguyen left to have any hope for. He ran for the Cyclone. It took him five minutes to force his way across the lot and onto the street. He sped down Bolsa toward Bennett’s house, lights and sirens flashing past.
The door was standing open and the lights were on, but the van was gone. Frye parked in the driveway and went in. The house was quiet. His ears rang and he was breathing hard. The television emitted a pale, hissing static. “Benny?” He checked the kitchen, then Donnell’s cottage. Where would you go, what’s more important than a dying friend? Why did you cut and run, Benny? As he stood in the back yard, Frye began to understand. It could only be one thing. The kidnap of Thach didn’t just backfire; it backfired exactly the way somebody had planned it. They had not only told Bennett that his operation had collapsed, but told him something about Li.
In the bedroom, he stooped down and looked under the bed for the suitcases of money. They were gone. Lying on the floor were Bennett’s crutches and suit.
How do you know where to go, Benny? I was in the trailer while they talked to you, and there wasn’t enough time to set up the details of a trade. You didn’t write anything down. You had no instructions. But you came here, took the money, left the television and lights on, the door open, and you ran. You didn’t know where you’d be going when you got here, but when you left, you did. The instructions were here. They left instructions here, while you were at the rally.