He had visited Maria on his way out of the clinic. It might have been better if he had let her die.
Lan had stayed at the hospital with him all night, after leaving the children with a friend whose home was not harmed by the fire. Lan said little, and she would not permit herself to cry, but her feelings were clearly expressed just the same. She was deeply worried about all the threats, all the danger—and the fact that whenever danger struck, her husband always seemed to be in the middle of it.
Each time the evil came a little closer to him, and as a result, a little closer to his family.
If some harm came to their daughters, Lan’s life would be over. She would never forgive him. He knew that now, with crystal clarity.
That night, as she had watched over him in the hospital, he had suspected for the first time that she realized he knew more about Tommy Vuong’s death than he had admitted. Had she found the papers? No, he checked as soon as he returned to his home—they were still where he had hidden them. Lan was very smart; she had simply figured it out.
And it worried her.
Colonel Nguyen eased through the entry doors and into the storage building where the chickens were kept. Dan Pham was there, with five of his closest followers huddled around him. Usually they held these meetings in the barn, but the barn was now a refugee camp, providing shelter to those the fire had left homeless until other arrangements could be made.
Nguyen couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t take a genius to determine the topic of conversation. Pham would not be cowed by this latest onslaught. He would never admit that they were outstripped, outmatched. He would retaliate.
Nguyen stole closer to them. The chickens clucked as he passed, but it was a sound they had all long since learned to ignore. From his new vantage point, he managed to overhear a few words. “Parade,” he heard Pham say several times. What could he possibly be referring to? “Surprise,” someone else said, followed by muffled laughter. Then he heard Pham distinctly pronounce the word attack.
“Have you come to join us, Colonel Nguyen?”
He looked up and saw Pham staring directly at him. There was no point in pretending he was doing anything other than what he obviously was doing.
He walked into their midst and sat between Pham and his followers. “I have not.”
“Is it your assistance you offer? Your experience in battle?”
“I wish to know your plans.”
“I do not think that would be wise.”
“I must know if Coi Than Tien is in danger. Think of the others in our community, Pham. Think of our families.” His eyes narrowed. “Think of your grandmother.”
Pham’s face became rigid. “It grieves me to be unable to assent to any request from a great man such as yourself. But if you will not join us, I believe it is best we keep our plans to ourselves.”
“Your plans will bring great danger down upon us. And our families.”
“You do not speak the words of a great war hero.” Pham laughed derisively. “You sound more like the white meddler who came last night to pry into our affairs.”
Nguyen knew to whom Pham was referring. The white meddler—the lawyer. The one Nguyen had lied to. Or at the very least, had withheld the truth from.
Nguyen knew who the lawyer was, of course. The nimble words of the woman from Hatewatch had not fooled him. Unlike most in Coi Than Tien, the Colonel went into Silver Springs every day, and he usually read the newspaper as well. The white man was the attorney representing Donald Vick, the man accused of killing Tommy Vuong.
The man Colonel Nguyen was almost certain had not committed the crime.
The lawyer was undoubtedly seeking information to help his client, engaged as he was in the noble cause of seeking justice for an innocent man.
And Nguyen had refused to tell him what he knew.
“The young man who visited us last night was right when he said that violence only begets violence. Terrorism is no solution. It only fans the flames of hate.”
“Take your homilies and go,” Pham said bitterly.
“Will you not even hear me out?”
“The time for words has passed. It is time for action!”
“Will you not let your friends speak for themselves? We are in America now. Let us put it to a vote.”
“I speak for my people!” Pham jumped to his feet. “Fine. We’ll put it to a vote then. Who favors including the great Colonel Nguyen in our plans?”
The five other men looked among themselves. No one’s hand rose.
“There is your vote, Colonel Nguyen. Now leave.”
Regretfully Nguyen left the chicken house. It was pointless to attempt to reason with Pham now. Nothing would stop him, not until he had brought the full fury of ASP down upon them and Coi Than Tien was utterly destroyed.
He considered gathering his family and their meager belongings and leaving, now, in the dead of the night.
He felt ashamed. If he did that, Pham would be right. He would be a coward. There had to be another way.
He would go into Silver Springs, as he did every day. He would try to find some meaning to parade and surprise. He would try to stop Pham and his men before the final die was cast.
Before it was too late for them all.
34.
“IS SHE CONSCIOUS?” BEN asked. The doctor nodded. “In and out. We have a catheter connected to the base of her spine feeding her painkillers. Tends to make her sleepy. Which is for the best, under these circumstances.”
Ben and Belinda were at the emergency treatment clinic in Silver Springs, in an examining room that had been converted to a makeshift burn treatment center for Maria Truong. Ben was consulting with the doctor in residence, Harvey Patterson, a tall man in his midforties.
“How bad are her burns?” Belinda asked.
“Severe, I’m afraid. If they were any worse, she wouldn’t be alive. She’s got scorched lungs and third-degree burns all over her body. Her hands are useless, virtually gone.”
“You said she’s on painkillers?”
“Yes. Some of her burns are so profound she’s suffered nerve damage, so she doesn’t feel the pain there. Some of the lesser-degree burns are still stinging, though. It’s ironic—the least critical burns are the ones that are causing her so much misery; the ones she can’t feel are the ones that may kill her.”
“Then you think she’s—”
“We have a guideline known as the Rule of Nines. It’s a shorthand method for determining the percentage of the body that’s been burned. She scores over seventy percent. And that’s mostly third-degree burns.” He paused, then looked down at his clipboard. “Burn victims with greater than sixty-percent burns rarely survive. And even if they do—” His voice choked; he never finished the sentence.
“Is there anything we can do?” Belinda asked.
“We’ve done all we can for her here, and we’ve called for transportation to a burn center in Little Rock. She’ll get all the best treatment. If that’s what she wants.”
“What do you mean?”
Dr. Patterson shifted his eyes to his patient. “At the burn center they can run tests and try grafts and plastic surgery, but it won’t do much good. Look at her hands, her face. Even if she survives, what kind of life will she have? She won’t be able to function; she’ll be in constant agony.”
The doctor dropped heavily into a nearby chair. “I’ve been working all night and day, doing everything I can think of to save her.” His voice lowered. “But the whole time I’ve been wondering if I should.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” Ben said. He hoped he sounded confident. He wasn’t. “Is it all right if I speak to her?”
“I don’t see that it can do her much harm. But remember, she’s heavily medicated. I can’t vouch for the quality of her answers.”