Old Man's Road: Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate Survivor Odyssey Series, #4

The Vietnam POW-MIA Ultimate

Survivor Odyssey Series

Book Four

OLD MAN'S ROAD

Don Price

Text copyright @ 2015 Donald L Price and Arlene C Olszewski

All Rights Reserved

Be convinced that to be happy means to be free,

and that to be free means to be brave.

Therefore, do not take lightly the perils of war.

Thucydides

Table of Contents

Chapter 4-1 Burned at the Stake

Chapter 4-2 Play Blood Sports

Chapter 4-3 Uncle Luong

Chapter 4-4 Gobbler Escapes

Chapter 4-5 Comrade Navigator

Chapter 4-6 The Cavalry Arrives

Chapter 4-7 Lunch in Lomphat

Chapter 4-8 Gobbler's Hideout

Chapter 4-9 Lady Pachyderms

Chapter 4-10 Beth's Fire Truck

Chapter 4-11 Loi the Buffalo Boy

Chapter 4-12 Put Up or Shut Up

Chapter 4-13 Master Trinh

Chapter 4-14 A Different Persuasion

Chapter 4-15 Burying a Patriot

Chapter 4-16 Razorhead Arrows

Chapter 4-17 A Boy Scout's Knife

Chapter 4-18 Doctor Barbara Ann Cabrillo

Chapter 4-19 Montagnard Trackers

Chapter 4-20 A Distinguished Service Cross

Chapter 4-21 His Grandpappy's Grit

Chapter 4-22 Land of the Million Elephants

Chapter 4-23 Kid Goat

Chapter 4-24 Simon's Problem

Chapter 4-25 Fight or Flight

Chapter 4-26 Char's Problem

Chapter 4-27 Here and Now

Epilogue

Prologue

Marine POW Corporal Thomas MacLaine buried his captain, Lance Warfield, in a shallow jungle grave. Warfield died because of severe mistreatment by their Viet Cong captors. MacLaine vowed to survive captivity and tell the Warfield family what happened to their son.

The Viet Cong moved MacLaine across South Vietnam's border into Cambodia where he was held in a small countryside village.

A Viet Cong cadre interrogated him, but MacLaine did not cooperate. The cadre had extensive proof that MacLaine was fluent in Vietnamese and had duped his captors into thinking he was an illiterate moron. MacLaine was tortured for misleading and not cooperating with them.

The village chief, a kind old woman, took pity on MacLaine. She fed him well, cared for his injuries, and protected him from further mistreatment.

An American POW named Girty, who had crossed over to the Viet Cong's side, came to the village. Girty tried to get MacLaine to cross over, too. MacLaine refused and antagonized Girty who, in a fit of rage, attempted to shoot him. MacLaine deflected the shot and it killed a senior Viet Cong officer. MacLaine believed Girty would blame him for the officer's death.

MacLaine's sister, Elizabeth, a county prosecutor in West Virginia, convicted a brutal wife beater of domestic violence. He received a thirteen-year sentence. His father and two of his brothers vowed to kill Elizabeth in revenge. Instead, Marine Captain Sam Sparkman killed the evil trio in self-defense.

Afterward, an incumbent US congressman died in office, and Elizabeth contemplated campaigning to fill his seat herself.

Chapter 4-1

Burned at the Stake

In the wintry, smoke-scented air, Charlene Bogart drove her Volkswagen up Phillipsville's Main Street, only to be stopped by the sole traffic light in all of Tecumseh County, the one on Loafers Corner.

This light should not be operating at this time of night, Elizabeth MacLaine said, shivering in the passenger's cold vinyl-covered seat.

Yes, Charlene agreed, revving the air-cooled engine in an attempt to get the heater to work.

Elizabeth glanced at her Seiko and saw it was a quarter past midnight.

Go ahead, Char, and run this stupid light, Elizabeth said.

I can't there's a truck coming.

I don't see it.

Its headlights aren't on.

Then to her surprise, Elizabeth saw a well-known old black Ford pickup turn onto Main Street and cruise out of town, carrying three men wearing baseball caps.

There go the damned Chisholms, she said, they stole my father's pickup out of the firemen's meeting hall parking lot.

On top of everything else those bastards have done to your family?

Yes, they are evil incarnate. Where is Dom Pellegrino when we need him? Elizabeth looked up at the traffic light. Damn. Still red. Why does this stupid light always take so long? At last she saw the light turn green.

Charlene accelerated her VW across the empty intersection.

Don't follow them too closely, Elizabeth cautioned.

But I've got to get out to the hospital before—

I understand, but let's be careful.

Elizabeth looked through the frosty side window at Honest Dolly's locked-shut diner, and then at the smoldering remains of Clayton's Pool Hall and her campaign headquarters. Out of the corner of her eye she wanted to spy her Uncle Harley's black-lacquered Indian motorcycle parked at the curb in front of Clayton's, but it wasn't there. True to his word, Sam Sparkman must have checked on the old bike at the volunteer firemen's station just up the road, and my Uncle Harley is resting in Charleston.

They just switched their lights on, Charlene said.

Elizabeth turned and looked through the front windshield. She saw the pickup's taillights glowing red, and said, "Yeah—right—those bastards are such time good law-abiding citizens.'

I wonder if they're aware my father is in the hospital? Charlene asked, shifting up through the gears and gaining on the pickup.

I doubt it because they've been setting fires and drinking all day.

An empty Iron City beer can flew out of the pickup's right window.

See, Char, they're still boozing—and I'll bet smoking pot, too.

Why don't those creeps just run off the road and die, Char said, because I'm afraid to pass them.

Don't get too close, Elizabeth said.

Char turned off her VW's lights.

If they can disobey the law, so can I because this is an emergency, she said, closing on the pickup's rear bumper.

They passed Lamar Denbow's Funeral Home next to the volunteer fire station with its vintage red 1945 Mack fire truck parked out front ready to roll, then the county's livestock and produce auction barn and the VFW.

As they approached the deserted Sky-Vue Drive-In movie, Elizabeth saw the pickup's headlights reveal a tall male figure striding along toward town on the edge of the road, his erect martial bearing was unmistakable to her.

There's Sam, she said, with a clutch in her throat. I hope those cretins don't recognize him.

What in the world is he doing out here at this time of the night? Charlene asked.

Getting some air on his way back to the Mountaineer Arms, she replied, seeing the pickup's lights change to high beam, and its brake lights flare.

Looks like they spotted him, Charlene said, and backed off the gas pedal.

Oh no, Elizabeth said, and saw the pickup swerve toward Sam trying to run over him, but he was too quick for them.

He tucked his tall frame, rolled like a tumbler, and disappeared into a roadside culvert.

The pickup veered off the blacktop, slammed to a light-extinguishing halt stuck in the same culvert, but a little farther up the road.

Oh, my God! Elizabeth blurted. They tried to run him down—to kill him.

Charlene sped past the scene.

Stop, Char, stop! Elizabeth commanded, looking back for Sam in the darkness.

For god's sake, Beth, my father is dying, Charlene shrieked, pressing down on the pedal. He won't get to see me married.

Stop, then, and let me out.

What are you going to do?

Try to help him.

No—they'll try to kill you, too!

Stop right now! Elizabeth ordered.

You said you would go to the hospital with me, Charlene sobbed. You know I can't go there alone.

Charlene—I said stop!

I won't because I want to see my father before he dies, Charlene said, pressing the pedal to the floor. I've got to ask him who my real father is before it's too late.

Elizabeth reached over, turned off the ignition key, and yanked up the emergency hand brake between the two seats.

The VW skidded to a halt.

I can't believe you did that, Beth, Charlene moaned.

Elizabeth opened the door and looked back to see a muzzle flash out of the pickup's passenger window and hear its simultaneous shotgun blast shatter the night air.

We been ah-lookin' for you Sparkman, a drunken Chisholm voice yelled in the distance, cuz me and my boys is gonna kill you one way or 'nother.

Elizabeth knew it was Pappy Bobcat. The old reprobate sounded determined to kill Sam. She wished her Uncle Harley were by her side right now.

Did they shoot at us? Charlene asked in a terrified voice.

No, Char, just restart your car and split. Elizabeth released the hand brake and turned to her trembling friend. You've got to get to the hospital quick.

I can't leave you here, Beth, they might kill you, too.

No! Go! Elizabeth heard pickup doors slam shut behind her followed by three more rapid shotgun blasts. When you get there, call the sheriff to send help.

All right, Charlene said between sobs, but promise me you won't get involved in this madness.

I promise.

Oh dear lord, Charlene wailed, I wish my sweet Simon were with me.

Elizabeth got out and flattened herself on the cold blacktop, listening to the VW's engine accelerate away and at least two dozen more sporadic shotgun blasts boom into the night.

I think we got the sonovabitch, boys, Bobcat yelled, but reload anyways.

Just like we got old preacher man Dan and Lizzie the Lezzie's little doggie, another voice shouted.

Chalk up number three for the KKK, came another.

Elizabeth recognized the voices of Maynard and Darrell. She was positive beyond a doubt they murdered her father and Jojo. Now they were trying to kill Sam, too.

With a quiet fury in her heart, she got to her feet, moved off the black top, and then ran back as far as she dare toward the pickup where she knelt and peered into the darkness. Holding her breath, she heard some hollow mechanical and clicking sounds, and then saw three shadowy figures bent low and creeping toward the roadside treelike up against the tall wall surrounding the Sky-Vue. Each figure had a blurry whitish-gray X-shaped cross on his back. She knew it was the Confederate battle flag's criss-crossing blue-and-white bars studded with thirteen white stars that infuriated her even further. She watched their stealthy advance as the minutes dragged by until out of the treelike came three winks of bright yellowish-orange light, accompanied by three rapid whip-cracking pops sounding like a short string of medium-sized firecrackers. With her hand over her mouth, she saw the creeping figures all pitch backward to the ground without a sound.

At that moment, she realized Sam Sparkman had just shot three of Tecumseh County's Knights of the Ku Klux Klan in self-defense. Pappy Bobcat, and his two boys: Maynard and Darrell. Trapped in the trees up against the Sky-Vue's wall, he'd had no choice.

* * *

About mid-morning when MacLaine had finished digging the second grave, two of the guards put the noose back around his neck and jerked him along to the village square. There they ordered him to stand at attention on a bench in front of the water well beneath the climbing sun. He asked them for something to drink, but they scorned him and retreated into the shade of the school building to squat, smoke, chat, and keep an eye on him.

MacLaine began to sweat as the sun seared down into the windless square. He felt his forehead, neck, and ears start to burn. Fruit flies buzzed about his head, landing with a pinprick of sharpness every few minutes. He tried to swat the tiny tormentors away, but a guard cursed and yelled at him to stop.

MacLaine continued to swat his tormentors anyway, until the cursing guard got up and came out of the shade to poke him in the butt with a bayonet, drawing blood.

MacLaine winced and shouted, You motherfucker!

The guard poked him again.

MacLaine hopped down from the bench and cocked his fists, ready to fight.

The guard screamed at him, The Front will kill you today or tomorrow.

He shouldered his rifle, took aim, and fired a round over MacLaine's head.

Crack.

It doesn't matter to us when you die, you American dog.

The enraged guard lowered his rifle just enough to center his front sight blade in the middle of MacLaine's face.

Back up on the bench, he ordered, or die right now.

MacLaine sensed the guard was out of control and not bluffing. He climbed back up on the bench wondering how close he'd come to getting blown away. Ironic, he thought, how in a split second a POW could come to death's door over such an insignificant issue as fucking fruit flies. He hoped that when he did have to meet his maker, it would be for a much more important issue—that of escape. Yeah buddy.

* * *

Elizabeth stood on shaking legs and called out in a tentative voice, Sam?

Yes, came his relaxed reply out of the wood line.

It's Elizabeth.

I know.

Are you okay?

Sam still doesn't miss a thing, she thought.

I'm fine.

Are they all dead?

I'm sure they are, and I had no reasonable alternative.

That's obvious to me, Sam. The Chisholms had tried to kill a trained killer, she thought, and paid with their lives. Is there anything I can do to help?

Yes, he replied with unperturbed composure, just stay where your are now, review in your mind what you just saw and heard take place, and then commit it to memory.

Okay.

You've got to have your facts straight and be able to tell the truth when I'm called before the grand jury.

I will, Sam, Elizabeth replied, hearing a lone siren wailing into the night.

Very well, Elizabeth, now I will remain in my present position so the authorities can see how this went down.

I understand, Elizabeth said, and wondered in amazement how an untroubled Samuel Solveig Sparkman could send three men's souls hurtling through the gates of Hell without even gulping.

Yes, he is the authentic Iceman, and he just iced three of her worst bete noirs, the main cause of her horrible, sweaty gown-soaking nightmares.

Despite the frigid air, she felt a warm flood of relief sweep over her because Sam had just done in three seconds what the Tecumseh County justice system couldn't have done in three years to avenge the deaths of her father and Jojo.

Yes, Sam had set her free from seeking her own compulsive Celtic craving for revenge from the Chisholms, a revenge her father would have deemed to be wrong—not Christian.

Now she could even retrieve Jojo's stiff little body from the sheriff's deep freezer, because his killers were dead, and his remains were no longer needed for forensic evidence.

Then, Elizabeth smelled spent gunpowder in a gust of wintry wind coming out of the treelike, and thanked God it had not been triggered by her Uncle Harley—bless his wayward soul.

She started sniffling at the thought of him wrapped up like a mummy in the Charleston burn unit.

Then she caught a faint wisp of Sam's Old Spice in the air, and her legs went willowy as the siren grew louder.

She sat down on the side of the road and hoped Detective Crocker was on his way to see that the Chisholms had at long last got what they deserved, and at the skillful hands of a third party with whom she was in frustrated love.

By defending his life, she realized Sam had given her a new life, and a chance to leave Tecumseh County without worrying about what misdeed the damned Chisholms would do next.

Maynard, for sure, wouldn't be calling her anymore in the middle of the night to tell her in his Grog-Rogers-sounding voice that, Right soon, you gonna look just like your car, Lizzie, with your red top all cut up, eyeballs popped out, teeth stoved in, pure alcohol up your ass, and your innards all wankajawed.

* * *

As the late morning dragged into the noon hour, MacLaine's back muscles began to contract into tight knots of spasms. He tried to escape the pain by projecting his mind into a fantasy world of escapism, but the sun's bright stabbing rays were inescapable.

Soon the burning thirst boiled up in his throat again, and he knew he was dehydrating like a raisin.

The village children played in the dust surrounding him, stopping from time to time to stare at the American prisoner wilting in the sunlight on the bench in front of their village well.

Over and again, MacLaine asked the guards for water, but the pitiless little tag team of torturers continued to ignore him.

The slow seconds ticked by into slower minutes, and the minutes into long hours as MacLaine began to match the alphabet with the names of automobiles, motorcycles, and trucks. He tried to change the manufacturers' names. Allis-Chalmers became American Motors. Buick went German: BMW. Cadillac became an icebox white Chevrolet Corvette split-window coupe. Dodge became DeSoto. Edsel went English and became an Enfield motorcycle. Ford went Italian and became Ferrari. But GMC stumped him and remained GMC. When MacLaine reached H, the classic black Harley-Davidson of his fantasy became a Honda CB-750 motorcycle or a Hudson Hornet. And when he got to I, his uncle's ancient Indian always remained on the two-lane black top of his imagination. He still heard the distinctive sound of its unique four-cylinder engine echoing in the deep valley beyond the piney ridge. The exhaust's rumble continued to reverberate in his overheated subconscious. He went three times through the alphabet, each time ending up with a bright orange Datsun 240-Z; its color matched that of the merciless orb beating down upon his bare red head into the searing afternoon heat of rural Cambodia.

* * *

Late the next morning in the Bogart kitchen, Elizabeth sat alone at the breakfast table, drinking tepid instant coffee and reading a special edition of the Clarion.

She looked at the headline.

JUDGE BOGART DIES

Also on the front page were two more articles entitled: Three Local Men Killed in Roadside Dispute and Fire Destroys Clayton's Poolhall.

All three articles had been written by Devorah and were as accurate as possible, given the rapid turn of events.

Yet, according to Dev in a dawn phone call to her, Joab Yoakum had edited out both the facts that her campaign headquarters had been destroyed and her uncle burned.

Yoakum, Elizabeth knew, was dumping on her and her family, as usual, by siding with the good old boys and the law firm of Manz, Dunbar and Hancock in any way he could, either by omission or commission.

Charged with triple murder, Sam Sparkman's bail had been set at an incredible $300,000 by the acting county judge, Horny Herman, and he was now confined in the mine-jail pending the reseating of the grand jury that was scheduled for next week.

In the meantime, Elizabeth racked her brain trying to find enough money to post his bail, the largest ever set in Tecumseh County history. It was obvious to her that Herman was trying to take advantage of the moment, and posture himself to appear like he was a real law-and-order candidate for Congress.

Despite the size of her father's unsettled estate, the number and capacity of his natural gas wells, and her trust fund set up by Grandfather Phillips so long ago, she was on the whole broke and unemployed. She toyed with the idea of selling her Mustang for seed money to buy replacement equipment for her new campaign headquarters, wherever it might be located. She wondered if it was now worth it to take on the Tecumseh County political establishment and spend money she didn't have, just to end up making a fool of herself—a laughing stock ridiculed in the press as a women's libber and despised by every red necked bubba on two legs who believed women should remain barefoot and pregnant ingénues.

Then there was the lesbian factor.

Word around town was that Herman Manz had coined an odious label for Char, Dev, and her—the ménage of twats—and the label was now often in the filthy mouths of his longtime trout-fishing, bourbon-drinking, cigar-smoking, and poker-playing buddies.

With Uncle Harley in the hospital and Tommy still lost in Vietnam, she couldn't imagine how things could get much worse, except—heaven forbid—that Sam might end up in the same cell with Gobbler down in the mine-jail.

The only good thing to come out of the whole mess was that in three calamitous seconds—Sam the man had given the MacLaines the upper hand over the Chisholms, and her uncle would be proud of his fellow Marine who had not backed down in a life-and-death fight he had not started.

Now, if the grand jury could just see it that way, Sam could walk, but his Marine Corps career was now on hold—if not over.

From behind her, Elizabeth heard Charlene weeping again in her upstairs bedroom. She was glad her dear friend at least got to the hospital in time to be at her father's bedside just minutes before he shrugged off his mortal coils.

Thank God.

But in those last minutes, Char had been unable to bring herself to ask him who her real father was.

Now Elizabeth had to help her bury him, and at this point she wondered if she had the strength to carry on another day, let alone rebuild her campaign headquarters and run for Congress.

Elizabeth heard the doorbell ring, and rushed to answer it, before the ringing disturbed Char.

When she opened the front door, she was surprised to see the rotund and shifty-eyed Herman Manz standing on the porch with an armful of fresh flowers.

* * *

Still standing erect in the blistering sunlight, MacLaine sang in silence the well-loved hymns he had learned as a boy in his father's chapel: Doxology, Just As I Am, Rock of Ages, How Great Thou Art, Jesus Lover of My Soul, Onward Christian Soldiers, and What A Friend We Have in Jesus.

He turned to patriotic songs and sang America, the "Star-Spangled Banner, and the Marines' Hymn."

He recited the Lord's Prayer over and over and reflected upon the travels of the Apostle Paul.

From time to time during the long, agonizing afternoon, MacLaine watched village women reel up buckets of cool water from the well, but they never offered him a single drop.

At last, the afternoon shadows began to lengthen into a welcome twilight, and the brilliant sun descended beyond the rice paddies.

The guards yanked him along on the nylon line all the way back to the mud bunker behind Mrs. Bep's house where they removed the chafing noose at last.

MacLaine called out to her for water.

The kind old woman brought him a green plastic US-issue canteen full of cool tea, a ball of rice embedded with sugar and sesame seeds, and a piece of boiled tortoise meat.

He thanked her and drained the canteen, and wolfed down the rice and savory meat.

He prayed the sun would not shine tomorrow because his skin burned like an unlanced boil.

His redhead's complexion could not take another day in the brain-baking sun that arc-lighted down like laser rays.

At that point, MacLaine believed he had a pretty damned good idea of what it would be like to be burned at the stake. His personal auto-de-fe.

* * *

Please come in, Mr. Manz, Elizabeth said, telling herself to be civil to him.

I brought these for Miss Bogart, he said. I thought perhaps they might cheer her up.

I'm sure they will, but Char is asleep right now, she whispered, put her finger to her lips, and motioned him to follow her into the warm kitchen where she put the flowers into some fresh water, poured him a cup of coffee, and asked him to sit if he had the time.

I am pleased to have this opportunity to converse with you alone, Elizabeth, he said, as he took a seat across from her at the breakfast table and cleared his throat.

We haven't talked in a while, Herman, she said, now comprehending that Char's flowers were nothing but an unvarnished gambit for him to get face-to-face with her.

First, let me say I am so sorry about the many untoward tragedies that have struck you and your family of late.

Thanks. He sounded sober and sincere to her for a change, but she was wary and wondered what kind of rap he would try to lay on her. Things will get better when my uncle gets out of the hospital.

I am confident they will, and my colleagues and I would like to assure you that your future will be a bright one, indeed.

How so?

Well, the 'good old boys' as you refer to them and I have discussed your political ambitions at length. We believe you have embarked upon a feckless endeavor, if I could be so blunt.

You all may be correct in your assessment, Elizabeth admitted.

With that in view, we would like to offer you other opportunities to forward your promising young professional career.

Okay, Herman, make me an offer I can't refuse.

With pleasure. He took a sip of coffee and tugged an earlobe. First, as you are well aware, my colleagues and I have the political wherewithal to ensure that you could be the next Tecumseh County prosecutor.

There's no doubt in my mind you and your cronies could make that happen.

"Secondly—and to that end—Mr. Yoakum has agreed to give you greater and much more favorable coverage in the Clarion."

That would be a change.

Without a doubt, Elizabeth, and such favorable publicity would accelerate your career into the future.

Could Devorah do the coverage?

Joab will make it part of her beat.

She would do a good job.

Yes, and finally, upon behalf of my law partners, I would like to take this informal opportunity to offer you a full but silent partnership in the law firm of Manz, Dunbar and Hancock. If and when you cashier your prosecutor's position, you will have a permanent job waiting with our firm.

Oh? Elizabeth couldn't believe it, but it was true: a full partnership before the age of thirty. Okay, Herman, what's the catch?

I wish you would not couch it in such a blunt riposte, but if you must, so be it. He arched a silver eyebrow and looked at her like a famished vulture eyeing a fresh road kill. All my colleagues and I ask is that you cease and desist in your campaign for Congress.

Given her situation, Elizabeth almost straight away agreed to withdraw, but held her tongue and plunged into an agony of doubt. County prosecutor or Seventh District congressional candidate? The choice was clear. The choice was hers.

Herman, I need some time to think this over because this would change everything.

Of course.

How much time do I have?

Well, my colleagues and I are gathering at the Blue and Gray Lounge this evening for our social hour. He finished his coffee, straightened his tie, and stood to leave. To get acquainted with us better, we would like to have you join in our conviviality.

Okay, I'll drop by after I visit Sam Sparkman in the mine-jail.

That young man is facing a life sentence in prison, Elizabeth, and you will be in a much better position to help him if you make the right decision—as I am sure you shall.

I'll try, Herman, I'll try, she said, feeling like she had been left at a remote country crossroads without a map or a compass.

Before the front door had closed behind Horny Herman's bubble butt, her thoughts delved into an apprehensive qualm of conscience, trying to define words like integrity, justice, honor, and love. All abstractions meaning little unless you were raised in the home of Grant Angus MacLaine, who often said adherence to your principles stood for far more than any mortal-versus-mortal victory on this earth.

* * *

When MacLaine awoke to yet another day of captivity, his heart felt frozen despite the rising heat of one of the hottest month in Cambodia. He was still in the claustrophobic mud bunker and his shoulders, nose, and ears were puffed with sunburn blisters. These, combined with the blisters on his hands, made him feel like he had been hosed down with a flamethrower. He knew he could not stand another day under the searing Indochina sun.

MacLaine called out to Mrs. Bep who soon appeared, clucked her tongue at his appearance, and motioned him to follow her into her house.

There she had him again sit on the ceramic stool in front of the thick-slabbed teak wood table, and gave him some cool tea to drink while she spread some ointment on his painful blisters from Hell.

Savoring the tea, MacLaine caught the medicinal whiff of her Tiger Balm ointment. To him it smelled like Vick's Vapor Rub, but with a hint of musk. The aroma reminded him of Ba Nguyen who had made liberal use of it to soothe her alleged arthritis.

Yes, he thought, Grandmother Liberation had lied about her supposed ailment, too, on top of everything else she had hoodwinked the team about. He wondered what the old gal was up to now. If still doing her thing, she was encouraging her sons to kill more Americans.

Chapter 4-2

Play Blood Sports

A groggy Charlene came down stairs to the kitchen. After a good cry about not knowing who her real father was and a cup of coffee, she was able to listen to Elizabeth tell her about Herman Manz's offer.

They discussed it all afternoon to the point Elizabeth concluded she was boxed into an impossible predicament with no loopholes.

If she accepted the offer, she would have an important and well-paying job, favorable press coverage written by Devorah, and a partnership in Tecumseh County's most powerful law firm.

More important, she would be in a position to help Sam.

But, if she accepted, she would be shirking her moral responsibility to her growing constituency of women and a number of younger men—like Dominic—who would no doubt vote for her.

Most important, if she accepted, she would betray her father's faith in her to always take the honorable road, no matter how hard it was to travel.

She remembered he often said that the true test on your integrity is what decisions you make and what actions you take when no one is watching you. He was no longer watching her on this earth but from Heaven above. His undeniable presence and the lofty principles he had stood for in his entire lifetime weighed upon her mind, body and soul like an unbearable ethical cross.

When the cold afternoon shadows grew long at last, Elizabeth got ready to go visit Sam.

She showered, set and brushed her hair, applied some makeup, and a felt a little better but not much. Dressing in no hurry, she put her black Burberry merino-wool blazer over her ribbed poor boy style turtleneck of creamy hue. Her custom-made MacLaine tartan-plaid flannel slacks dropped into low-heeled, copper-green suede leather slouch boots lined with black fleece.

Putting on her lovat-green tam and her dark-russet mountain ski park at the front door, she said good-bye to Char and trudged off into the dark, empty streets of Phillipsville, headed for the courthouse.

Meandering along her roundabout way, Elizabeth agonized over whether or not to tell Sam about Manz's offer, but decided not to burden him any further. He had enough to worry about with a possible death sentence hanging over his handsome head. No, she would have to make the choice without his wise counsel, and she prayed that she would make the right one for the sake of the MacLaine clan's sacred family honor.

Then she prayed for her uncle's recovery from his burns, all the while fearing some horrible disfigurement to his chiseled face.

* * *

Before Mrs. Bep could fix breakfast for MacLaine, Count Dracula's guards appeared to roust him out of her house, still barefoot and clad only in the ragged pair of muddy khaki shorts.

Despite her scolding objections, they marched him back to the rundown cemetery on the outskirts of the village and to the grave of Partisan Tran Van Hoang, late of the Third Battalion, Sixth Regiment of Colonial Infantry, who died for France on June 30, 1950.

MacLaine noted the grave to the right of Hoang's had been filled with the dark, moist soil he had dug up the day before.

At the head of the grave, a crude wooden plank proclaimed it to be the final resting place of Major Magoo:

Hue Lich Phuong

Thieu Ta Mat Trang

Chet Ah Viet-Nam

1931-1971

MacLaine now knew the English professor's real name: Hue Lich Phuong, a major of The Front who died for Vietnam at age forty.

He also knew the Viet Cong did not record the exact date of death to prevent the American intelligence officers from correlating a given death to a specific action. In that way, American commanders never knew for sure if they were effective in battle or not, unless, of course, there were dead bodies on the ground. Then they could make their infamous body count that brought them medals, praise, and promotions.

In this case, MacLaine knew the myopic major had met his end in a way that would bring no medals, praise, or promotions for himself—just more maltreatment—and the ever-present specter of death.

Looking at the empty grave he'd dug to the left of Hoang's, he wondered if its watery mud bottom would be his final resting place, and what type of crude wooden plank the Viet Cong would erect to him.

No doubt none.

Well, he decided, if Captain Lance Warfield was buried in an unmarked grave, he would share his good captain's fate with pride.

Besides, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it now except pray.

* * *

Between the cell bars, the ever-composed Sam told Elizabeth he was sure he would be relieved of his recruiting duties in Charleston, pending the grand jury's decision to prosecute him for murder, or manslaughter.

Then, even if found blameless, he would be transferred to some dead-end assignment because of all the negative publicity the incident would without doubt generate about the Corps.

Rather than end up somewhere like the Marine Barracks, Keflavik, Iceland, guarding US Navy submarine patrol planes, he said he would volunteer for another tour of ground-combat duty in Vietnam, where nobody cared how many of the Chisholm tribe had lived or died at his hands.

Over there the Corps could always use another battle-tested infantry company commander because they got blown away so often.

The heavy thought of Sam going back to play blood sports again in Vietnam, because Elizabeth had asked him to kick those three Chisholm cretins out of the firemen's meeting hall and caused them to hunt him down to kill, was almost too much for her to bear.

Regardless of which way she looked at Sam's appalling situation, she saw herself to blame—big time—and now she couldn't even help him get out of jail or salvage his once promising professional career.

* * *

MacLaine looked at the half-dozen Viet Cong guards as they formed up into an impromptu firing squad. They were a ragtag bunch equipped with a variety of weapons: three Chinese AK-47s, an old French MAS-36, and an American M-16 and an M-2 carbine. All the guards had smiles on their faces.

At first MacLaine thought they were smiling because they were just fucking around with him, but then he remembered the exasperating Vietnamese cultural trait that pissed off American GIs to the max. Vietnamese have a tendency to smile and laugh at the most inappropriate times, if they are nervous or bewildered by untoward or uncontrollable events. MacLaine surmised the guards might be smiling because they were, no shit, about to shoot him.

MacLaine began to pray for deliverance.

The head guard made him stand on the edge of the grave facing the firing squad that fell into a loose line and loaded their weapons. Behind them, a large crowd of jubilant villagers had gathered to see the American executed.

Among them, MacLaine recognized the old man who had sprang from the crowd brandishing a rice hook when they first entered the village several days before. The one who screamed something at him and spit in his face before the Viet Cong shoved the hysterical elder back into the crowd.

Now the old man was smiling at him like a delighted hyena who had just found a fresh carcass.

MacLaine overlooked the old one, and in the distance he saw more figures streaming out of the village heading toward the cemetery, including three or four young men who looked like even more Viet Cong.

With green-nylon parachute line, the head guard tied MacLaine's wrists together behind his back. Then he took two small strips of white first-aid tape and made a cross on MacLaine's bare chest above his sternum. To finish the job, he tied a black cloth over MacLaine's eyes that smelled like rotten fish.

Unable to see, MacLaine heard someone shout, For numerous crimes against the peace loving Vietnamese and Cambodian peoples, this American dog is sentenced to death.

He then heard a different voice shout something unintelligible in Cambodian—a translation—because the crowd cheered and clapped in approval.

Now, safeties off, comrades, and take aim at the white cross.

MacLaine heard the crowd grow quiet.

Ready...aim at the cross...steady, comrades, steady...fire!

MacLaine heard muzzles crack, felt a blunt force strike his chest hard, knocking him backward like a puppet cut away from its strings. The watery mud in the bottom cushioned his rearward tumble into the grave. Nevertheless, the blunt-force impact knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he could not catch his breath. He wondered if he was dying.

* * *

Trying to get a grip on her conflicted emotions, Elizabeth paused outside the swinging double doors of the Blue and Gray Lounge.

Well aware she had to face this terrible test of her character, she still could not bring herself to decide what choice to make: prosecutor or candidate?

With shaking legs, she started to enter the bar, when from inside she heard Herman Manz pompous voice boast, So in summation, gentlemen, I am pleased to report that yours truly made our girl, Lizzie, an offer she could not refuse.

The sound of male guffaws, scornful laughter and a smattering of applause followed Manz's vain and boastful summarizing sentence.

Elizabeth backed away from the double doors, feeling clobbered by life and started to hyperventilate.

Behind her back, the two-faced son of a bitch had called her a girl and Lizzie—names Herman knew she hated.

What else had he been saying?

The ménage of twats?

Lizzie the Lezzie?

What?

Well—girl was enough for her.

Leaning against the wall, she staggered down a hallway and into a women's rest room where she removed her tam, bent over, and breathed into it like a bag, trying to get her deep gasping anxiety under control.

After several long minutes, she was able to straighten up, look into the mirror, and breath in an almost normal way.

She wondered if women survivors off the Titanic looked like she did right now? Blue-ringed manic eyes in a drawn and forlorn face as blank and stiff as a Halloween mask.

She pinched her chalky cheeks to raise some color, but her thin, cold flesh seemed bloodless.

No wonder Sam doesn't find you attractive, she thought, because you look like one of Charles Manson's followers just back from a bad LSD trip.

Elizabeth started pacing around the women's rest room and gave herself a MacLaine-clan pep talk to stoke a righteous fire in her belly. In her memory, she hop scotched through all the good old boys' offenses against her, her family, friends and constituents, trying not to be paranoid about their cumulative total of transgressions. The latest was Joab Yoakum's failure to mention not one word in the Chronicle about either her headquarters or Uncle Harley's severe burns in a fire—no doubt set by the Chisholms, who she was glad were dead and gone to Hell. Sam had dealt with them, and she would deal with Herman Manz.

Now self-motivated, Elizabeth combed her tawny hair, applied fresh lipstick, and put on her tam at a cocky angle riding down low over one fiery-green eye.

Exiting the rest room, she was surprised to find a hunch-backed little man leaning up against the wall in the hallway. He wore an army field parka that was too big for him and a black wool watch cap pulled down over his ears. His hands were stuffed into the parka's slash pockets, like he was cold.

Howdy Miss MacLaine, he said just above a whisper. Vera Jean said you might be droppin' by this evenin'.

Elizabeth didn't recognize him at first, but then saw the crossed yet intense Chisholm eyes.

Well hello, Jimmy, how are you?

Real fine since I quit drinkin' and been outta the weather and eatin' right.

You sure look better.

Yes ma'am, and I feel better with the weight I done put on.

What have you been doing with yourself? she asked, noting he no longer stuttered.

Goin' regular to AA out to Tecumseh General like you done told me to.

Dom been giving you a lift?

Oh, yes, he's a mighty fine friend for a lawman.

I'm sorry about your three Chisholm kin.

Jimmy looked at her like a man who had come back from the dead and said, "I