"Shar, what's this about?"
"I'll tell you later."
"You keep saying that, but I never get fully caught up."
"Have patience. Got to go now." As I replaced the receiver, the door to the office opened and Willie and Hank entered.
Hank looked around the cramped cubicle, then sat on a folding chair under the window. Willie perched on the edge of the desk, swinging one cowboy-booted foot. He said, "This'd better be important, McCone. I had to cut short my visit to my Oakland store to get back here on time."
"It is." I opened my briefcase and took out the legal pad I'd made notes on while at the SFPD that morning.
"Well, aren't you going to enlighten us?" Hank asked. "I was planning to go home early, but your message kept me at All Souls just long enough for a client to call with an emergency, and now I've got to work through the evening again."
I was trying to save their lives, and they were complaining about me wasting their time! I said, "Did I ever tell either of you what a pain in the ass you can be?" The words and their tone were unusually harsh for me; both Hank and Willie looked taken aback. They exchanged quick looks, but neither spoke.
I said, "First I need to ask you some questions about Vietnam in nineteen seventy. Both of you were in Cam Ranh Bay at the same time as Perry Hilderly?"
Hank nodded.
"And Hilderly hung out with a bunch of you from the base?"
"Yes, at an off-base bar… What was it called, Willie?"
"Something French."
"Moulin Rouge? Rouge et Noir?"
"Rouge et Noir," Willie said.
"Good memory."
I asked, "Who usually hung out with you?"
Hank looked blank, then glanced at Willie. Willie shrugged. Hank said, "Well, people came and went a lot. In a place like Cam Ranh, the personnel fluctuated daily."
"A big base, was it?"
"Cam Ranh itself was a port-built from the ground up by the U.S. in case Saigon fell. There was the army supply depot, where Willie and I were stationed, plus navy and air force bases, an airfield serving the area, a hospital. About twenty thousand military stationed there, and God knows how many civilians." He paused, smiling ironically. "Government sunk billions of the taxpayers' dollars into Cam Ranh; then after the pullout it became a virtual ghost town. Now it's a port of call for Soviet ships."
"So what you're saying is that it would be difficult to remember specific individuals whom you hung out with?"
"Some I probably could, people who stayed around for a long time. But like I said, they came and went."
I leaned back in the desk chair, considering what I knew about the military. It was a fair amount; my father had been a chief petty officer in the navy, a thirty-year man. I said, "For a minute, let's talk about the people who we know were there. You"-I motioned at Hank-"were politicized by the war, went over there a liberal and came back a radical. Hilderly was a war protester, a reporter, and a civilian. And you"-I looked at Willie-"would by no means have been your ideal enlisted man. In addition, Hank was an officer. It's fairly unusual for officers and enlisted men to socialize."
"Well," Hank said, "in a combat zone it's a little looser. But what you're getting at is correct: we were a bunch of liberal misfits."
"Then I assume your group caused comment, might have been resented by the more hawkish element?"
"Christ, yes," Willie said. "Was like everybody in our corner of the bar had leprosy, except for when some asshole decided to pick a fight." To Hank he added, "You remember that night I almost got into it with that fascist lieutenant? For sure I'd of ended up court-martialed if you hadn't stepped in."
I sat up straighten "Do you remember the lieutenant's name?"
"… I can't remember. Hank?"
Hank shook his head.
"Do you recall anything about him?"
"Nothing except the attitude."
"Besides him," I said, "do you remember anyone else who tried to pick fights or otherwise antagonize you?"
"There were plenty of them, but after all this time the names and faces aren't clear."
"Hank?"
He shook his head. "Frankly, I've repressed a lot of things about those days."
"Try to think back to Rouge et Noir. Picture it, and yourselves there in your corner. Who else is with you?"
Both of them closed their eyes. After a moment Willie said, "That radio operator, got killed in the patrol plane crash."
"Sorry. I should have told you I'm only interested in people who so far as you know are still living."
More silence. Then Hank said to Willie, "The guy from Atlanta-the one who'd met Martin Luther King."
"Bernie-nan, he bought it at Da Nang."
"Mike, the one who always had the terrific grass?"
"Dead, too."
"What about Chris, from Philadelphia?"
"Helicopter crash."
If I let them go on, it would begin to sound like a reading of the names from the Vietnam War Memorial. I said, "What about John Owens?"
"Owens," Hank said.
Willie frowned, then snapped his fingers. "Johnny Owens. I should of remembered him. Was a crazy man, actually wanted to kill the fascist lieutenant. Probably would of, too, if he hadn't transferred out and got sent up to Saigon. Wonder whatever happened to the crazy son of a bitch?"
"He was the sniper's third victim."
Willie's mouth dropped open. Hank's face went taut and still-the way I've seen it when something unexpected happens to him in court.
I asked, "Were there any women in your group?"
Hank said, "A few. Mostly nurses."
"What about a Red Cross nurse named Mary Johnson?"
"… It's such a common name."
"I remember her," Willie said. "She wasn't there long. A blonde with a fiance in the marines. I lusted after her, but she wasn't having any."
Hank looked at me. "Mary, too?"
"The second victim."
"Why didn't I realize it when I saw the story in the paper? And the one about Johnny?"
"Mary Johnson had married and was going by the surname Davis. And even if her name had been the same, or Owens's more distinctive, there would have been no reason for you to connect them with people you'd known casually in a bar in Vietnam. That was a long time ago."
They were silent for a moment. Willie finally asked, "What about the sniper's first victim?"
"He's the one who originally didn't fit the pattern. Bob Smith. A drifter, worked in restaurants mainly. But I have an idea about him. Military food services are usually provided by civilian contractors. What was the name of the one at your base?"
Hank shook his head. Willie said, "Damned if I can remember. Ought to, for all the bitching about the food that I did. What was it we nicknamed them?"
Hank smiled faintly. "American Constipated."
"American Consolidated Services," I said.
"Right!"
"Then there's your link. You may not remember Bob Smith, but he worked for American Consolidated during that period, and I'm willing to bet he hung out with you at the Rouge et Noir, too."
"Okay," Hank said, "I see where this is leading. Someone who didn't like our political orientation and disregard for protocol is now-after close to twenty years-tracking down people from the group and killing them. But why, after all that time? And how does he find us?"
"In Willie's case, it's obvious-the TV commercials. And you don't keep all that low a profile. The others he could have stumbled over by chance, or by less circumstantial means."
Willie shook his head. "McCone, this is fuckin' crazy. The guy must be crazy."
"When did you hear of a sane person stalking others with a gun?"
They were silent again. I was busy formulating an idea that I wanted to run past Greg. After a while I said, "The important thing right now is for both of you to stay safe. You're going to have to be extra cautious, even during daylight. He's missed once, and that might have made him impatient."
"Don't you worry about me none," Willie replied. "I'm going home and locking myself in until this is all over."