Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty

“You don’t have to like it. By definition, medicine’s not supposed to taste good.”

She managed a gulp. It burned all the way down her throat. “Thanks,” she muttered. “I think.”

He began to walk a slow circle, surveying the plush furnishings, the expansive view. Sliding glass doors opened onto a balcony. From the Chaophya River flowing just below came the growl of motorboats plying the waters. He wandered over to the nightstand, picked up a rambutan from the complimentary fruit basket and peeled off the prickly shell. “Nice room,” he said, thoughtfully chewing the fruit. “Sure beats my dive—the Liberty Hotel. What do you do for a living, anyway?”

She took another sip of whiskey and coughed. “I’m a pilot.”

“Just like your old man?”

“Not exactly. I fly for the paycheck, not the excitement. Not that the pay’s great. No money in flying cargo.”

“Can’t be too bad if you’re staying here.”

“I’m not paying for this.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Who is?”

“My mother.”

“Generous of her.”

His note of cynicism irritated her. What right did he have to insult her? Here he was, this battered vagabond, eating her fruit, enjoying her view. The tuk-tuk ride had tossed his hair in all directions, and his bruised eye was swollen practically shut. Why was she even putting up with this jerk?

He was watching her with curiosity. “So what else is Mama paying for?” he asked.

She looked him hard in the eye. “Her own funeral arrangements,” she said, and was satisfied to see his smirk instantly vanish.

“What do you mean? Is your mother dead?”

“No, but she’s dying.” Willy gazed out the window at the lantern lights along the river’s edge. For a moment they seemed to dance like fireflies in a watery haze. She swallowed; the lights came back into focus. “God,” she sighed, wearily running her fingers through her hair. “What the hell am I doing here?”

“I take it this isn’t a vacation.”

“You got that right.”

“What is it, then?”

“A wild-goose chase.” She swallowed the rest of the whiskey and set the tiny bottle down on the nightstand. “But it’s Mom’s last wish. And you’re always supposed to grant people their dying wish.” She looked at Guy. “Aren’t you?”

He sank into a chair, his gaze locked on her face. “You told me before that you were here on family business. Does it have to do with your father?”

She nodded.

“And that’s why you saw Kistner today?”

“We were hoping—I was hoping—that he’d be able to fill us in about what happened to Dad.”

“Why go to Kistner? Casualty resolution isn’t his job.”

“But Military Intelligence is. In 1970, Kistner was stationed in Laos. He was the one who commissioned my father’s last flight. And after the plane went down, he directed the search. What there was of a search.”

“And did Kistner tell you anything new?”

“Only what I expected to hear. That after twenty years, there’s no point pursuing the matter. That my father’s dead. And there’s no way to recover his remains.”

“It must’ve been tough hearing that. Knowing you’ve come all this way for nothing.”

“It’ll be hard on my mother.”

“And not on you?”

“Not really.” She rose from the bed and wandered out onto the balcony, where she stared down at the water. “You see, I don’t give a damn about my father.”

The night was heavy with the smells of the river. She knew Guy was watching her; she could feel his gaze on her back, could imagine the shocked expression on his face. Of course, he would be shocked; it was appalling, what she’d just said. But it was also the truth.

She sensed, more than heard, his approach. He came up beside her and leaned against the railing. The glow of the river lanterns threw his face into shadow.

She stared down at the shimmering water. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the daughter of a legend. All my life, people have told me how brave he was, what a hero he was. God, he must have loved the glory.”

“A lot of men do.”

“And a lot of women suffer for it.”

“Did your mother suffer?”

She looked up at the sky. “My mother…” She shook her head and laughed. “Let me tell you about my mother. She was a nightclub singer. All the best New York clubs. I went through her scrapbook, and I remember some reviewer wrote, ‘Her voice spins a web that will trap any audience in its magic.’ She was headed for the moon. Then she got married. She went from star billing to a—a footnote in some man’s life. We lived in Vientiane for a few years. I remember what a trouper she was. She wanted so badly to go home, but there she was, scraping the store shelves for decent groceries. Laughing off the hand grenades. Dad got the glory. But she’s the one who raised me.” Willy looked at Guy. “That’s how the world works. Isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned her gaze back to the river. “After Dad’s contract ended with Air America, we tried it for a while in San Francisco. He worked for a commuter airline. And Mom and I, well, we just enjoyed living in a town without mortars and grenades going off. But…” She sighed. “It didn’t last. Dad got bored. I guess he missed the old adrenaline high. And the glory. So he went back.”

“They got divorced?”

“He never asked for one. And Mom wouldn’t hear of it anyway. She loved him.” Willy’s voice dropped. “She still loves him.”

“He went back to Laos alone, huh?”

“Signed up for another two years. Guess he preferred the company of danger junkies. They were all like that, those A.A. pilots—all volunteers, not draftees—all of ’em laughing death in the face. I think flying was the only thing that gave them a rush, made them feel alive. Must’ve been the ultimate high for Dad. Dying.”

“And here you are, over twenty years later.”

“That’s right. Here I am.”

“Looking for a man you don’t give a damn about. Why?”

“It’s not me asking the questions. It’s my mother. She’s never wanted much. Not from me, not from anyone. But this was something she had to know.”

“A dying wish.”