Never Trust A Lady

Chapter 5

“Emma? Sorry to call so late…”

“Tom? Oh, my goodness. Tom, is it really you?”

With the phone pressed painfully against his ear, Hawk listened to the compassionate, gentle voice he hadn’t heard in so long and remembered so well. Jen’s voice. “It’s me, Emma. I hope I didn’t wake you.” The voice hadn’t sounded at all sleepy, but then that was Emma.

“Oh, Tom, what a lovely surprise! No-no, as a matter of fact, I was waiting up for Frank. He’s grading papers-spring break starts next week. He should be home any time. Oh, he’ll just hate that he missed you. Where are you? Are you in town?”

“I’m in town, but-”

“Oh, how wonderful. Can you come for a visit? We’d both love to see you.”

“I wish I could, but it’s business, and I’m pretty tied up. I just called…” He paused to take a breath, both because the ache in his chest needed easing, and because the fact was, he didn’t know why he’d called, “…to say hello.”

“We’ve missed you, Tom.” The voice had grown softer. The sadness in it leaked from the receiver and into his soul. “It’s been so long. Seven years…”

“It was yesterday!” He regretted, but was unable to blunt, the harshness in his tone.

There was a pause, and then, “I wish you’d come home. Tom. I think…perhaps you need to.”

“Emma…” His voice cracked. “I can’t.”

“Jennifer wouldn’t have wanted this for you. You know she wouldn’t. It’s time, Tom.” There was a pause and then a whispered, “Time to say goodbye.” And he knew she was crying.

“Soon,” he growled, his voice guttural with pain. “I’ll come for a visit. I promise. Listen, say hello to Frank for me, will you?”

“Of course I will. Oh, Tom, I’m so glad you called. I just wish-”

“Good night, Emma.”

“Tom? Be good to yourself…”

He gave her the chuckle she wanted and hung up. Groped for his cigarettes, lit one and pulled the smoke past the band of pain around his chest, held it until he felt the slightest easing, then exhaled on a long sigh. He sat quietly smoking, staring out at the city lights-Arlington, not Washington; his fifth-floor room was on the opposite side of the hotel, the best he’d been able to do at the last minute-and let memory carry him back to a long-ago summer afternoon…

Voices and laughter, whoops and splashes, the smell of charred meat drifting up to his bedroom window from the yard that backed up against his. A slender, dark-haired woman waving to him, calling to him: “Hi, we’re your new neighbors-the Hostetlers. That’s our daughter, Jennifer, there in the pool. Would you like to come over for a swim? Jenny would love some company…”

Even now the memory could make him smile, remembering the way his thirteen-year-old hormones had stirred at the sight of that dark head emerging from the water, sleek as an otter…the perfect, sunburned oval she’d turned to him, with a look of utter disdain…the way she’d pranced the length of the diving board, so proud of her budding body, to execute the most glorious cannonball he’d ever seen. Love at first sight, that’s what it had been.

Time to say goodbye…

Hawk shook his head, a small, silent rejection, drew on his cigarette one last time and stubbed it out. Emma was right, he knew that. Seven years was long enough. But try telling that to his heart. His heart seemed to have its own timetable, and about all he could do was wait for it to reach the same conclusion. He’d know the moment it happened, he was sure of that. He’d feel it.

And until then… He stood and stretched, then pulled off his shoes and lay down on top of the bedspread, flat on his back with his hands laced across his midsection. Until then, he had a job to do, and days to get through, one at a time. Tomorrow was a new day, and it was shaping up to be an interesting one, at that.

He’d pretty much accepted that his mission now had two objectives. The first-and still the most critical, of course-was to recover that painting and the vital piece of information Jarek Singh had hidden inside it. The second and probably the more difficult task was to protect Jane Carlysle.

Hawk programmed himself for sleep the way he’d learned to do as a boy of sixteen, and then perfected seven years ago, first clearing his mind, making it a blank screen on which he projected a pleasant, relaxing vision. Most often the vision he chose had something to do with the sea, a calm sea with sunlight streaming through clouds, sparkling on gently rocking swells…the cries of seagulls and the swish and murmur of waves washing on warm sands.

Tonight, though, for some reason, the image that came to fill the screen in his mind and refused to leave, no matter how hard he tried to supplant it, was…a face. A woman’s face. A nice face with a kind smile and sea-gray eyes with telltale laugh lines at the corners, eyes that could light with sudden joy, the way the sea does when the sunlight hits it a certain way…or go dark and deep with sadness, anger or fear. Jane Cartyste’s face.

He found it an oddly comforting vision.

Jane woke to find sunshine streaming through her uncurtained window, and beyond it a soft spring sky with only a few fat puffy clouds scurrying in pursuit of the cold front that had blown through in the night.

How different things always look in the morning, she thought, buoyed by thoughts of spring. But she was a naturally optimistic and msilient person; like bad dreams, the night’s doubts and fears had vanished with the daylight, leaving her with only an edgy sense of anticipation and excitement.

The first thing she did, after the morning mists and cobwebs had cleared, was reach for the phone. A check-in call to the girls was long overdue. They were full of the anticipated questions and reproaches, the loudest of which were in response to being roused at seven-thirty on a weekend morning.

Maybe she was only under the influence of the champagne sunshine, but Jane found that she had no trouble coming up with the necessary lies and reassurances that had been beyond her capabilities last night. Since lying had never been one of her talents, she was surprised and relieved that hers were so readily accepted. She thought it probably had a lot to do with the fact that Tracy was nursing a homework hangover and Lynn’s head was swimming with the details of her latest scheme to postpone her final year of college.

“Eurail Youthpasses, Mom. Kevin says that’s the only way to go. You can go anywhere, for three months. You have to go with a companion, so that’s okay, and we can extend it, if-”

“Hey, wait, who said anything about extending?”

“How was the auction, Mom?” That was Tracy, with a yawn that sounded as if it could have sucked in the whole phone. It was followed by a sleepy snicker. “Meet lots of cute guys?”

Knowing that it was safe because they’d never believe her anyway, Jane told the truth. “A couple, actually.” She paused for a chorus of “Ha-ha’s” and “Yeah, rights,” then added her diversion. “I bought some things.”

More yawns, politely smothered this time. Then a duet: “Hmm…really?” “What’d you buy?”

“Just some small stuff.” They’d never understand about the Roy Rogers six-shooter. She wasn’t sure she did, herself. “A painting-kind of nice, I think you’ll like it. I’m going to have it appraised this morning. A gallery in Georgetown-somebody Connie knows.”

“Do you think it might be valuable?” That was Lynn, the analytical one. Jane could almost see her, suddenly sitting up straighter, back against piled pillows, her interest hooked by the tantalizing thought of money. She was David’s daughter, alas, but a darling in so many ways that it was easy enough to overlook one small avaricious streak.

“Oh, no, not really,” she said quickly, anxious to head that idea off at the pass. “I didn’t pay much for it. I’d just kind of like to know what it’s worth.”

“Good idea. Kev says you should have everything in your household appraised anyway-for the insurance. He’s got all his mom and dad’s stuff on their computer. You should do that, Mom. Kev could probably do it for you. There’s this neat program-”

“So, when are you coming home?” Tracy, of course, trying to sound casual, though Jane could almost see her daughter’s forehead creasing with anxiety, worrying about dwindling refrigerator stores. With a few more months yet to fledge, she seemed content for now to cling to the safety of the nest, feathers fluffed, plaintively chirping. Which was okay with Jane; she wasn’t in any great hurry to see her last baby fly away. One at a time was about all she could handle.

She made soothing, mother-bird noises into the phone. “Soon. Tomorrow, probably. I’ll call you when I know exactly-by the way, I’ll need one of you to pick me up at Raleigh-Durham. I just want to see a few of the sights in Washington while I’m here. I told you I might.”

“That’s great, Mom, I think you should,” Lynn said. “Washington’s really big with the baby boomers right now. Oh-and Kev says you have to be sure and see The Wall.”

“The wall?”

“The Vietnam Memorial? They have all the names-”

“Oh, yes, of course. I plan to. And the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument and all that good stuff. Listen, Tracy?”

“I think…she’s in the bathroom.”

“Oh, okay, well, remind her to keep the bird feeders filled, will you? And if you need anything, you can give Connie a call. She should be home soon-might even be there now. She left last night. Don’t forget to bring in the Sunday paper tomorrow-you’ll need it for the TV guide. And save the coupon-”

“Mom, we’ve got it covered, okay? Don’t worry about us. Have a good time in Washington. But be careful, right? I’ve read about their crime rate.”

“I’ll look both ways before crossing the street, and I promise not to talk to strangers,” Jane said, laughing. Inwardly cringing. “Listen, I’m getting a late start, as it is. You guys be good and I’ll see you soon, okay? Call you tomorrow. Love you both. Bye.”

She hung up the phone without waiting for the response, then sat for a minute or two waiting for lightning to strike her dead on the spot for telling her children such lies.

When, she wondered, did they become the parents and I the child?

In his room two floors below Jane Carlysle’s and on the opposite side of the hotel, Hawk emerged from the bathroom freshly showered and dressed for comfort in khakis and a favorite old cable-knit pullover sweater. As he stowed away his wallet and weapon in their customary places, his eyes sought out the coordinates on the GPS monitor purring away in the middle of the unrumpled bed. Thank God. She hadn’t moved.

He lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it, waiting for the nicotine to ease the knots of tension in his belly. He couldn’t afford any errors in judgment; too many lives depended on it, not the least of which was Jane Carlysle’s.

It didn’t help matters that he’d slept so badly. It was almost funny, when he thought about it, the way her face had come to him-which had surprised the hell out of him, but he’d allowed.it to stay because it had seemed sort of…comforting, at first. He’d liked having it there in his mind, the laughter in her eyes, that nice smile. Not a bad vision to carry him into sleep.

Except that somehow the vision had gotten away from him, and instead of her face he’d suddenly begun seeing other parts of her, particularly the part he’d enjoyed watching so much while she was walking away from him down in the lobby, the part that was responsible for the jolt he’d gotten just below his ribs when she’d leaned over to prop the painting on the pillows. The part he’d most like to…

Dammit, he couldn’t keep having these lustful thoughts about the woman!

Not that he’d mind, ordinarily, or that he hadn’t enjoyed his fair share of lustful thoughts during the last seven years-on the contrary, he figured he probably fell in and out of lust a couple of times a year on average. He considered lust healthy and a pretty good tension reliever. But this was different. He couldn’t remember ever being in lust before with somebody he actually liked.

So you like this woman?

The question came like a whisper of a playful breeze, skirling around the corner from the very back of his mind, stirring memories still so painful he almost cried out in agony, and instead lashed back in anger. Dammit, why shouldn’t I like her? It’d be pretty near impossible not to like her!

The whisper became a chuckle, amused and satisfied. You do, you like her…

Hawk snatched the phone, muttering curses under his breath as he punched in the number for Interpol’s Washington bureau. He reported to Devore on the previous evening’s activities and got the answer he’d expected to his request for information on Mrs. Jane Carlysle, of Cooper’s Mill, North Carolina: Clean as a cookie sheet. Nothing. Nada. At least as far as the FBI was concerned, the woman was exactly who she claimed to be.

Which didn’t mean much, of course. A well-planted agent’s cover wouldn’t be so easy to crack.

He turned off the GPS and restored it to his briefcase, then plucked a scuffed and well-worn bomber jacket from the foot of the bed and shrugged it on. Sunglasses and a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap completed his “disguise.” High-tech toys would be useless to him today; he’d play this cat-and-mouse game the old-fashioned way.

A glance at his watch confirmed what he already knew. Time to go. Time to get himself into position so he’d be certain to pick up Carlysle the minute she left the hotel. He’d use the GPS as backup in case he lost her, but he knew he wasn’t going to do that. He couldn’t afford to. As long as she had that painting, one woman’s life wasn’t worth squat to the cold-blooded killer who’d put a bullet in Loizeau’s forehead.

Jane loved subways. More than skyscrapers, more than tangled freeways, to a girl raised on a Southern California farm they’d always seemed the very essence of City, the heart and arteries pulsing away beneath the surface streets and sidewalks, carrying the endless flow of humanity that was the life’s blood of any metropolis. Nowadays, even medium-size cities had their skylines, and the smallest towns their soaring freeway interchanges. But only the grandest of cities-San Francisco, New York, Boston, Paris, London, Washington-had subways.

The Washington Metro took her breath away. First the descent, down, down, down into the earth…the gleaming caverns echoing with hurrying footsteps, and then…the slightest stirring of wind, the faintest vibration, felt with the most primitive of senses, the way animals sense a distant storm. And all at once, with a rush and a rumble, it was there. Joining the crush of people, like catching a wave…heart pounding, wait for the right moment… now. The moment of panic: Oh, God, I hope this is the right train! The euphoria as she settled into her seat, confident in the knowledge that, yes, it was the right train, headed in the right direction, and all she had to do now was watch and listen for the right stop. Whew!

If she hadn’t been so caught up in it all, she might have noticed him sooner. But it wasn’t until the train had left the station and was rocketing beneath the Potomac River-next stop, Foggy Bottom, a name she’d always adored-that she caught a glimpse, through several layers of windows and flickering reflections, of a dark-browed, scimitar-nosed profile.

Her heart, just settling down to normal rhythms, jolted once more into high gear. It was that man, the one from the auction-Aaron Campbell! Yes, she was sure of it-she’d recognize that dark hair and Arab sheikh’s profile anywhere.

What could he be doing on this train, if not following her? Oh, God, what should she do?

And now-even worse-he seemed to have disappeared. Where was he?

The train was slowing, the loudspeaker announcing the Foggy Bottom stop. She was supposed to get off here, according to her maps and Metro schedules. But now what should she do? Get off and go for help?

Ridiculous notion-what would she say? “Excuse me, Officer, but I think a man is following me… Why? Because he wants my painting… What painting? Oh, well, I have it right here… No, it’s not valuable. I bought it yesterday at an auction for seventy-eight dollars and fifty cents.”

As Tracy would say, Yeah, right.

The train was stopping, the doors whooshing open. She had to make a decision….now.

The instant the doors cracked open, Hawk squeezed through, stepped out onto the platform and headed for the escalators without looking back.

The one big advantage he had in this game was that he knew what Carlysle’s next move was going to be. A gallery in Georgetown, that was what she’d told him-assuming, of course, that she hadn’t thrown him a red herring. Which he was fairly confident she hadn’t, since he’d spotted and made note of the address her friend had jotted down for her and left on the dresser in her hotel room.

Plus, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Jane Carlysle didn’t have a devious bone in her body.

Unless, of course, she was the most devious person he’d ever met.

In either case, his strategy was the same one he’d been following since leaving his room at the hotel. It was easy, since he knew his way around Washington so well, to get ahead of his quarry, find himself a hidden vantage point and wait and watch to see which way she went. There-he had her spotted now, in the crowd making for the GW University exit. So she’d told the truth this time, at least; Georgetown it was.

He was feeling pleased with himself as he stepped onto the escalator, figuring Mrs. Carlysle ought to be just about reaching the top. And then he got a nasty surprise.

Damned if that wasn’t her, coming back down the other side!

He was able to turn away before she spotted him, but not before he’d gotten a pretty good look at her face. And what he saw there didn’t make him happy. What he saw was fear. That was unmistakable. But he also saw purpose. No doubt about it, the woman was taking deliberate evasive action.

Dammit, how in the hell had she spotted him?

Roused and fuming and marooned on the Up escalator, Hawk could only watch helplessly while his quarry, his supposedly guileless innocent, dodged through the crowd like a broken field runner as she sprinted toward the exit at the far end of the station.

It was while he was silently and bitterly cursing the duplicity of women and his own gullibility that he gradually became aware of a commotion somewhere above him on the moving escalator. It merely distracted him at first; someone-a man-seemed to be pushing and shoving through the standees, trying with some haste to make his way to the top and generating considerable unhappiness among the passengers in his wake. It was only after the man had done a one-handed vault onto the Down side and was hurtling toward him at great risk to life and limb that Hawk got a really good look at the “rude commuter.” What he saw altered his frame of mind completely.

Campbell! So that was it. That was who Jane must have spotted. No wonder she’d taken off like a vixen with a pack of hounds on her tail.

Those weren’t good moments for Hawk. Another hunter was after his quarry, and he was stuck on the damn escalator!

But it was more than that, and something as yet unacknowledged deep within him knew it. The terrifying truth was, he was beginning to care what happened to Mrs. Jane Carlysle of Cooper’s Mill, North Carolina. He hadn’t counted on that.

At least he hadn’t lost her. Not this time. Thank God, he thought grimly as he tightened his grip on the handle of his briefcase, for high-tech toys.

Jane told herself that she was acting like a crazy person. She was jumping at shadows, behaving like a complete ninny. She’d never been paranoid before in her life. What she needed to do was stop a minute, get her bearings, get a grip on herself. Think.

Bursting out of the Metro station like a flushed pheasant, she found herself in the midst of a throng of camera-bearing tourists, all of whom seemed to be wearing Bermuda shorts, never mind that the temperature wasn’t likely to hit sixty. It seemed enough that it was Saturday, the sun was shining and spring was officially four days old. In spite of her not having a camera with her, Jane seemed to fit right in with her sunglasses and oversize tote bag, so she allowed herself to be swept along with the crowd toward the Lincoln Memorial.

No one paid the slightest bit of attention to the fact that she kept turning to look behind her, to the right, to the left, and behind again. After all, they were all doing much the same thing, jostling one another and pointing out landmarks along the way.

By the time she’d reached Constitution Avenue and there was no sign whatsoever of either Aaron Campbell or Tom Hawkins, she began to relax and even enjoy the sights a little herself. Walking through the park, with the pristine white columns of the Lincoln Memorial visible through the charcoal-gray skeletons of trees, she no longer felt fearful at all-merely foolish.

This is all so silly, she scolded herself as she settled onto a sunny bench with a sigh. I surprised a burglar last night-big deal.

And Mr. Hawkins was some sort of law officer on some sort of assignment that had nothing to do with her. No one was following her, nobody was trying to take her painting away from her. That was just…silly.

She was just plain Jane Carlysle who worked at a bank in Cooper’s Mill, North Carolina, divorced mom facing empty-nest syndrome, gardener, bird-watcher, closet romantic, day-dreamer… to whom nothing exciting ever happened.

But all the same, she checked to make sure the paper-wrapped parcel was secure in her tote bag, and looped the handles carefully over her arm as she rose.

Well, now. Since I’m here, she thought, why shouldn’t I see the Lincoln Memorial, at least? And The Wall, of course.

She could always go to Georgetown later this afternoon.

Besides, the Lincoln Memorial would be crowded with tourists; she’d be safe there.

What in the hell is she doing? Hawk wondered

The woman had been sitting on the Lincoln Memorial steps for a good twenty minutes. Just sitting there. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d even taken the risk of getting close enough to see her, to make sure she was actually there, thinking she might have found the tracking device in her purse and left it behind to throw him off her trail.

But no, there she sat, soaking up sunshine, enjoying the view, apparently waiting…for what? Or who? He couldn’t decide whether she was waiting for a contact, carrying out some sinister agenda, or whether, with the instinctive cunning of a hunted animal, she was merely seeking high ground in order to sniff the wind, to see who might be on her trail.

Campbell had spooked her badly; she had to be wondering whether he was still out there somewhere. Hawk was wondering about that, too. He hadn’t spotted him yet, but that didn’t mean much. Unless the guy was a complete idiot, he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

One way or another, intentionally or not, Jane Carlysle was proving to be a lot better player at this game than he’d expected.

And why couldn’t he make up his mind about her? After giving himself a severe talking-to this morning, he was pretty sure he had the lust thing under control, but still the picture in his mind labeled Jane Carlysle remained cloudy and out of focus. His usually keen instincts didn’t seem to be functioning where she was concerned. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out who she was and where she fit in all this. And that worried him. In fact, it was driving him crazy.

For a long time Hawk sat still, hands resting on the GPS monitor lying open in his lap, with The Wall there at his back and the sun soaking into the leather of the old brown bomber jacket, like a warm hand resting on his shoulder.

Finally, like someone coming out of a doze, he shook himself, checked the monitor one more time to reassure himself that Mrs. Carlysle was still keeping her enigmatic vigil, then shut it down, and closed and locked the briefcase.

A young couple was moving down the paved walk in front of The Wall, close together, hands linked. Hawk watched them, for a moment envying their closeness. He wondered if it made it any easier, having someone there. Or if it was a thing better done with only one’s own ghosts for company.

Seeing as how he had no choice in the matter, he squared his shoulders, walked over to the directory, peeled back the pages and ran his finger down the endless list of names. Rapidly, at first, but then his trailing finger slowed…and paused. He felt a tremor deep in his belly.

He drew a long breath, then did an about-face and walked quickly down the slope, into the long black gash in the earth’s green skin known as The Wall.

He moved along without pausing, part of him noticing the details of his surroundings, as was his ingrained habit, taking in the tokens left here and there along the base of the black granite wall-American flags, flowers, photographs, hastily written notes-and the subdued presence of park security. He noticed that the casual visitors tended to keep a certain distance, strolling by quietly, almost reverently, on the outside of the walkway, now and then pointing, like polite strangers in church. Mostly it was those on a more personal quest who moved in close. Who seemed to feel a need to reach out and touch.

He found the name he was looking for at The Wall’s highest point, where the names were thickest, the numbers the most overwhelming. He was glad that it was only a little above head height and easy to reach. Slowly he lifted his hand and traced the letters: Walter T. Hawkins. Then the diamond that designated KIA-killed in action. He opened his fingers and placed his palm flat against the polished granite. He hadn’t expected it to feel so warm, almost like a living thing instead of polished stone.

In that moment something swelled and burst inside him, as unpreventable as an unexpected sneeze. It was a few minutes before he was able to mumble the words he’d waited so many years to say.

“Hey, Dad. I guess I should have come before. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long…”

Jane lost track of how long she sat on the cold marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial, watching the tourists come and go, seeing watchers in the shadows, a terrorist behind every tree. So she wasn’t sure exactly when it was that she began to get angry. When she came to realize that the intruder in her hotel room might have stolen something from her that was of greater value than any painting, even a real Renoir. When she became determined that if it was the last thing she ever did, she was going to get that something back. No art thief or petty burglar was going to run her life!

What was it that nice young instructor in the self-defense class she’d taken in those first nervous, vulnerable months after the divorce-what was his name?-Shing Lee, that was it. What had Shing always said?

Take control, take action!

Yes, that was it. To get over this awful fear and sense of violation, she had to take back control. She had to take action. It was all up to her.

The first thing she made up her mind to do was what she’d planned to do in the first place-see the sights of Washington. Later on, if she felt like it and it was convenient, she’d take the painting to a gallery and have someone tell her what she already knew: that it was an undistinguished Impressionist-style painting, not especially good, but it would look quite nice hanging over her piano.

And if, during the course of the day, anyone tried to push her down, step on her back and render her unconscious, well…thanks to Shing Lee, she had a trick or two up her own sleeve.

Just let them try, she thought as she rose somewhat stiffly and started down the steps. Riled and ready, she was almost disappointed not to catch a glimpse of Aaron Campbell lurking in the trees between the Lincoln and Vietnam Memorials.

But as she made her way slowly down the walkway past the rows of makeshift tent stalls manned by disabled veterans in their long hair and beards and tattered camouflage fatigues, selling memorabilia and souvenirs of a war they couldn’t leave behind, she found the incident in her hotel room, and all her fears and unanswered questions slipping into the back of her mind. As always when confronted with reminders of that war and those times, she developed an irritating little itch of guilt.

At the height of the dying and the turbulence and dissension, she’d had other things on her mind. In the early years of a marriage that had been troubled even then-though she’d never have admitted such a thing-she remembered feeling only a mild sense of sorrow and regret when her mother had called with the news that a boy Jane had gone to school with was MIA-missing in action in Vietnam. In recent years, though, she’d found herself thinking quite a bit about Jimmy Hill, though she’d never known him well at all. He’d been two years ahead of her, and in a different crowd altogether. But still…she had known him. She could recall his face even now. Where would he be today if he’d survived the war? Might he be like one of these men, with their maimed bodies and nightmares, their grizzled faces and haunted eyes?

So it was partly to scratch that little itch of guilt that Jane decided to look up Jimmy Hill’s name in the directory, partly to try to feel some sort of connectedness to a period of history that had inflicted such grievous injury on an entire generation, while leaving her virtually untouched. Beyond that, she had no idea what she hoped to accomplish by finding Jimmy’s name on that wall of so many thousands of names. Touch it, maybe? Say a little prayer for his family? She didn’t know. But it seemed important, somehow.

Her heart began to beat faster when she found the name in the book, followed by a cross that, according to the directory, meant MIA. But the awe didn’t hit her until she was approaching The Wall itself…until she saw the first of the names. So many names. That was when she knew that she should not have come alone, and that she would leave something of herself behind.

What was it about the place? She vaguely remembered controversy when it first opened…probably the statues added since had assuaged any disappointment that might have lingered. But it wasn’t the statues people came to see. It wasn’t the statues that made strong men cry.

Like that one there, the tall, lean man in the brown leather jacket, standing with his palm pressed against the mirror-like surface of the monument, head bowed, shoulders hunched with pain.