Conspiracy

155

“How many things would you change?” asked Longbow.

“I don’t know,” said Dean. “Maybe nothing important.”

“Interesting,” said his old friend. “You mean you’ve made no mistakes?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. Of course I made mistakes.

But how do you separate them from everything else?”

“Interesting.”

“You know we killed the wrong guy in Quang Nam,” said Dean. “It was his brother. He sent him as a decoy. Must suck to live with that.”

“You killed the wrong guy.”

“Yeah. He’d been tipped off somehow. But he was only on the list in the first place because the Americans who were paying him off stole his money and they were afraid he’d squeal.”

“Did he?”

“Eventually.”

“So that was one mistake you’d take back.”

“I don’t know. No. His brother was VC, too. Well, one thing I’d do differently — I wouldn’t let you go to fill the canteens.”

Longbow smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t have let you go in my place. The man who got me had circled below the ridge. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I even saw him before he fired. But I slipped a little — I missed my shot, Charlie Dean.

Isn’t that crazy? Whoever heard of a sniper missing his shot?”

“It happens.”

Dean thought of the mountain lion, the sudden surge of adrenaline. A moment that could have gone either way.

How many moments were like that, when you could change things? How many would he change, if he really had the power to do so?

Maybe he did have the power. Maybe that was what happened — maybe you got another shot at doing things right when you died.

Lia’s legs trembled fiercely as she walked down the hall of the hospital. Tommy Karr walked beside her. For the very first time since she’d known him, he didn’t crack a joke; he didn’t chuckle; he didn’t laugh; he didn’t even smile.

“This way, ma’am,” said the aide who was leading them.

They passed through a double set of doors into a large room.

Hospital beds were clustered around the room, each one surrounded by several carts of medical equipment. Monitors beeped; displays burned green; vital signs charted into un-dulating hills on the black screens.

Charles Dean lay in a bed next to the nurses’ station, surrounded by machines. Tubes ran to his face and arms. He’d been hit by three bullets. One had punctured his lung; one had severed an artery; a third had slipped against the outer wall of his heart.

“Charlie Dean,” gasped Lia. “Oh, Charlie.” a woman parted from the crowd. It was Qui Lai Chu, the woman who had been his guide and translator in Vietnam.

“You’ve come back, Mr. Dean,” said Qui. “Why?”

“It was my assignment. I didn’t come on my own.”

“You came to see the road you might have taken.”

“No,” said Dean. “You’re wrong.”

“Where will you go now?” asked Qui.

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you ready to die?”

Dean thought about the question for a long time. Finally, he said that he didn’t think it was up to him.

“No,” said Qui. “But you should know that you won’t be forgotten. You will not turn into a hungry ghost.” For some reason, that comforted him.

lia gripped dean’s hand and leaned close to his ear.

“Charlie? Charlie? Can you hear me?” He turned his head toward her. The nurse behind her waved to one of the doctors, motioning him over.

“Lia,” Dean said, without opening his eyes.

“Charlie?”

“I’d do it all again. Everything. Us.” Lia sank to the floor. “Oh, God,” she prayed.

“It’s all right,” said Dean, opening his eyes. “I’m going to be OK.”

“Charlie.”

“I’m going to be OK.”

“You want kids?” she asked.

“Yeah. Do you?”

“Yes.”

Dean smiled, then closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Real tired.” Lia looked up and saw the doctor staring down. “Is he going to be OK?” she asked.

“I’m going to be OK,” Dean said to her. “I’ll be walking out of here tomorrow.”

“You’re not walking out of here tomorrow,” said the doctor sharply.

“But he will be OK,” said Lia.

The doctor paused for what seemed the longest time, then nodded slowly.

“He’ll recover. But he has to take it slow. Very slow.”

“That word’s not in my vocabulary,” said Dean.

Lia put her hand against his cheek. “It is now,” she told him. “It is.”