by Mel Odom
“Missing? Not AWOL?” Will sat in a chair at the McHenry kitchen table beside Estrella as she walked him through her findings. He was tired but restless, which was always a bad combination for him.
“Yes. Army MPs worked his disappearance as a criminal act from the beginning.”
“Why?” Will knew that U.S. soldiers had gone missing in Vietnam during that time period for a lot of reasons. Some of them deserted, and some were killed in DMZ skirmishes or ambushes. There were even times when attacks against U.S. soldiers killed men who weren’t identifiable.
That war, more than any other before it, had taught Americans how bad war could be. There, in the middle of enemy territory, trapped in a land where the enemy had no place to retreat and no choice except to fight, they’d learned how ferocious that enemy could be. Vietnamese women carried hand grenades into bars and pulled the pins, killing themselves and all within. Children working as shoeshines covered razors in their rags to ruin soldiers’ boots or wound them. There wasn’t a place in that country where the American forces hadn’t had to defend themselves.
AWOL or desertion would have been easier to accept than kidnapped or murdered. All sorts of crimes had happened over there, on both sides, but they had been eclipsed by the horror of the war.
“Private First Class Marvin Cantrell reported Hinton missing,” Estrella said. “According to this report, Cantrell suspected foul play on the part of Victor Gant. Late the evening of the fifteenth, Cantrell had left the bar in Qui Nhon where he’d been with Hinton. Cantrell ended up with food poisoning and was sick for the next two days.”
Will followed the information on the badly typed image copy Estrella had retrieved from Department of Defense files. The copy was stamped as property of the Army’s CID.
“As soon as Cantrell was well enough, he went to his commanding officer and made the report,” Estrella said. “They kicked the report over to the MPs and the matter was turned over to the CID.”
“But the CID didn’t find anything?”
“No. Those years were the hot ones in Vietnam. River traffic through Qui Nhon was important during those years, and the North Vietnamese were pushing back with everything they had. Their attacks were taking their toll.”
“What information do you have about the investigation?”
“Although they don’t look it, typewriters being what they were then and correction fluid being all the rage—” Estrella pointed to obvious smears across the pages—“the notes are good. The CID lieutenant was a Philadelphia police officer before he got drafted. He went over there knowing how to conduct an investigation.”
“That was lucky.”
“It would have been luckier if he found Hinton or figured out what had happened to him.” Estrella tapped the keyboard and pages flipped past. “His investigation met with a lot of resistance.”
“Because of Victor Gant?”
“Because of a lot of people,” Estrella said. “By that time in the Vietnam War, drugs had become prevalent among the troops.”
“They were a bunch of scared kids,” Will said. “Most conscripted armies are.”
“The military forces in Iraq aren’t conscripted,” Estrella said gently, “and I think a lot of them are scared kids anyway. I was older than a lot of them when I joined the Navy, but I was still scared for a long time while sitting on an aircraft carrier.” She paused. “Drugs are a coping mechanism, but they only put things off. They don’t help.”
Will knew Estrella was speaking from personal experience. He glanced at her.
“I knew someone,” Estrella said without looking at him, “who lost himself in drugs. But it wasn’t drugs that pushed him over the edge. It was everything that was going on in his life.” She shook herself and took a breath. “Sorry. It’s a long story and sad.”
“If you ever want to tell it to anyone,” Will said, “I’m here.”
“I know. But today definitely isn’t the day for that.” Estrella highlighted a section of the report. “The CID investigator, Ramsey, established a timeline for Hinton.”
Will stared at the timeline. “Guy was meticulous.”
“I know. Ramsey charted everything Hinton did the day he disappeared. The timeline ends here, in one of the local bars in Qui Nhon.”
Ramsey’s file even included faded color pictures that looked like they’d been taken with a Kodak Instamatic. Scratches marred the pictures’ finish and they looked like pale imitations of the originals.
The bar where the timeline ended was a single-story ramshackle building with a corrugated tin roof. Bits of jungle brush peeked out from the rickety wooden steps that led up to an abbreviated veranda.
“Cantrell went to Fat Boy’s with Hinton that night,” Estrella said.
“Fat Boy’s is the bar?”
“Yes. It’s also a type of Harley,” Estrella said. “The bar’s owner was an expatriate American veteran who got released on a medical discharge.”
“And instead of going home, he decided to hang around and open a bar?”
Estrella nodded. “That’s all covered in Ramsey’s notes. The rumor was that Fat Boy’s provided drugs to anyone that wanted to buy them. Victor Gant was supposed to be a silent partner.”
“Was he?”
“Ramsey couldn’t confirm that.”
“Why did Hinton go there?”
“The reports don’t say.”
“Did Hinton go there regularly?”
“I don’t know.”
Will’s frustration grew. It was hard seeing Shel, who was normally one of the most together human beings on the face of the planet, torn up over what he was supposed to do. Will wanted desperately to do something to help.
“Was Gant there that night?”
“Yes. Cantrell’s statement confirms that.”
“Did Hinton and Gant know each other?”
“There’s no indication,” Estrella responded.
“What happened?”
“Statements of other witnesses in the bar that night confirm that Hinton left in the company of Victor Gant.”
“What about Tyrel McHenry?”
“McHenry isn’t mentioned in these reports.”
“Does anyone know where Gant went that night?”
“Not that Ramsey ever discovered.”
Will pushed up from the chair and looked out through the window. The ranch looked peaceful—except for the sheriff’s deputies walking around outside. Will imagined this had been a great place for someone like Shel McHenry to grow up. There was plenty of hunting and fishing, and the ranch work was physically demanding. For a moment he wondered what Shel would have been like as a boy.
Then Will thought about how estranged from his children Don had said Tyrel McHenry was. The man’s past, whatever had truly happened, couldn’t have been easy.
“There is something we can follow up on,” Estrella said.
Will turned to her.
“A few of Victor Gant’s cronies are mentioned in Ramsey’s reports,” Estrella told him. “Since they’re all ex-military personnel, I was able to pull them up.” She laid a computer printout from a portable printer on top of the table. “Six men besides Gant are named. Two of them were KIA in Vietnam. One went MIA there. Another was killed in a 1997 shootout with the Atlanta Police Department while riding with the Purple Royals. The fifth, Michael Wiley, is still riding with Victor Gant. We tagged him as Fat Mike.”
“What about the sixth man?”
Estrella pointed to a name on the page. “PFC Richard McGovern was hit by a Bouncing Betty land mine in 1971 and got mustered out on a medical discharge. He’s living in Philadelphia on a military pension.”
Will looked at the young soldier’s face on the monitor. Back when the picture had been taken, McGovern had been a young man with angular features and hard eyes. He didn’t look civilized even in his dress uniform.
“McGovern was there at the bar the night Hinton went missing?” Will asked.
“Yes.”
“Where did he spend his military career?”
Estrella checked. “He was assigned to Gant’s unit for seven of his eight years served.”
“Did you background him?”
“I did.” Estrella pulled up another file. “Stateside, McGovern was arrested for selling drugs six times from the age of eighteen to twenty. He entered the military voluntarily to avoid jail time.”
“But then he re-upped.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think McGovern became an overnight patriot,” Will said.
“I doubt that.”
“Do you have a current address for McGovern?”
“The military sends him a check every month.”
“Get me the address.”
48
>> International Border
>> El Paso, Texas
>> 1942 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Perspiration trickled down Tyrel McHenry’s back as he sat in the back of the cab in the line leading to the border patrol checkpoints. Evening was settling over the area. The eastern skies had turned dark.
Tyrel’s eyes burned from fatigue. He hated wearing a ball cap instead of the Stetson he’d worn for so long. But he’d had to wear a hat. His forehead had a demarcation as clear as the Texas-Mexico border from El Paso to Ciudad Juárez. He’d never been outside the house without his hat, and his forehead would have been unevenly tanned. People would have noticed and remembered him, and he couldn’t afford that.
He’d also dyed his hair black, something his vanity would never have allowed him to do had he not been forced into hiding. With his weathered tan, he figured he could pass as a Mexican in time. That was the plan anyway. After today he didn’t intend to ever step foot on American soil again.
He didn’t deserve to. He hadn’t deserved that honor in over forty years.
“Senor,” the cab driver called.
“Yeah,” Tyrel answered.
“Do you have your papers ready, senor?”
“I do.”
The cabbie was a round-faced man in his forties. The taxi smelled like cheap soap; a figurine of Jesus stood on the dashboard.
“That’s a good thing, senor. These border officials, they are very proud of their paperwork.”
Tyrel had gotten rid of his papers. When he’d first returned to the States after leaving Vietnam, he’d planned to relocate to Mexico if worse came to worst, and back then identification wasn’t required to pass back and forth between Mexico and Texas.
Relocate, Tyrel snorted to himself. Why, listen to you, you old fool. This ain’t no relocation. You’re jackrabbiting to keep your tail together. Like a coward. If you had any pride, you’d have let the Army do what they needed to do forty years ago.
But he hadn’t been able to do that. Back then he’d just been too afraid. Then he’d come home to find Amanda waiting for him and felt like he deserved something good for himself. Then Shelton had been born and Don after that. Once he’d been on that road, he couldn’t turn himself in. By the time he’d gotten strong enough to accept what he would have had to do, he would have been abandoning his family. The military and the government didn’t help out families of a murdering soldier. Tyrel wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but he was pretty sure about that.
After 9/11 and the tight security that went up overnight on people traveling out of and into the United States, Tyrel had known he’d need papers to get over into Juárez if the time ever came. Working with migrant laborers and other men he’d known had given Tyrel the name of a man who could falsify papers. It had cost Tyrel a lot to get a good set.
He didn’t know how good the papers were because he’d never used them before. But he was about to find out.
“So, senor,” the taxi driver said, “your trip to Juárez, is it for business or pleasure?”
“Business,” Tyrel said, hoping the man didn’t keep talking to him. He just wanted to get across the border and be gone.
After riding out, he’d freed his horse. Given time, the mare would wander back to the barn. He knew that Don, and Shel for that matter, would care for the livestock. Three miles of hiking had brought Tyrel to Bobby Foyt’s place. Foyt and his family were out of town on a last-chance vacation before school started back.
Tyrel had hot-wired the old Chevrolet pickup in the garage, left money for it in Bobby’s barbecue grill because Bobby didn’t let many days go by without grilling, and driven down to El Paso secure in the knowledge that no one would know the truck was missing for several days at least.
He’d stopped and eaten once outside of El Paso. The television had carried a baseball game and the local news. That was when he found out about the manhunt the sheriff had unleashed to look for him. Tyrel had gone into the bathroom with the hair color and come out with black hair. Then he’d gotten back on the road.
In El Paso, he bought a few things to carry across the border in a suitcase, courtesy of the bargain bins at the Salvation Army. He’d have been able to buy anything he needed in Juárez, or wherever he finally decided to light, but going across the border empty-handed would have drawn attention.
“What kind of business?” the cabbie asked.
“Construction.” Tyrel knew enough about that line of work that he could pass for a foreman. He’d learned a lot about woodworking and building when he’d built the ranch house and barn. Then there had been various other projects with neighbors over the years.
“Constuction is a fine business,” the cabbie said. “I have done construction work. My father was a cabinetmaker. A very fine cabinetmaker.”
Tyrel wished the man would shut up. Waiting in the long line was making him as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He didn’t need to try to be carrying on a conversation at the same time.
He glanced at the people at the side of the street. The border allowed a lot of walk-through traffic as well. If not for the checkpoint, El Paso and Juárez might as well have been one large city. They were of equal size, but there was a vast difference in the appearance and the economies.
As he watched, a young boy of nine or ten walked beside his mother. The boy was eating a hot dog and holding on to a bright blue balloon. The balloon jerked in the wind and captured the boy’s attention.
The young mother balanced a sleeping child in her arms and chatted amiably on a cell phone. She hardly paid any attention to the older boy.
The boy with the balloon stopped suddenly. His balloon floated away and he grabbed his throat. Panic filled his face. His mouth opened to yell—but nothing came out. He grabbed his mother’s dress.
Angry, the young mother turned around to admonish her son. Then she saw him holding his throat. His sunburned face reddened more.
Somebody help him, Tyrel thought. He’s choking.
“Help me!” the young mother screamed. She dropped the cell phone and grabbed her son’s arm. Wakened, the baby started screaming too. “My son needs help! Please! Someone help me!”
The bystanders backed away as the boy continued to struggle to breathe.
Tyrel couldn’t believe it. Surely someone was going to help.
No one did.
Without thinking, Tyrel threw the cab door open. Images of Don and Shel ran through his mind. He remembered how he’d always been afraid of something happening to them when they were young. It was a parent’s worst nightmare.
Like a broken-field runner, Tyrel made his way through the stalled lines of cars till he reached the boy. The woman still yelled for help.
“I can help him,” Tyrel told the woman. “Give him to me.”
Reluctantly the woman let go of her son. “He’s not breathing. He can’t breathe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tyler said. “I know.” He felt a little panicked himself. When Don and Shel were little, he’d worried about them. Especially Shel because he’d been fearless growing up. Don had had more sense. Tyrel had worried even more when Shel enlisted and went off to fight in the Middle East.
The boy fought Tyrel, p
ushing at his hands.
“Listen to me, son,” Tyrel said calmly. “You’re gonna be all right. We’re gonna get through this.” He forced the boy’s jaws apart and peered into his mouth.
There was no visible obstruction.
Tyrel stepped behind the boy and placed his hands together in a double fist just above the boy’s navel. He pulled in and up, fast and hard, just like he’d learned to do when the boys were small. In all those years, Tyrel had never had to Heimlich anyone, but once he’d been shown something, he never forgot it.
Nothing happened. The boy still couldn’t breathe.
Tyrel knew that a crowd of people had gathered around them. All of them watched. He cursed them all. What he was doing was something anyone could do. The only reason he was there was because no one else would step up.
“C’mon, boy,” Tyrel coaxed. “You’re scaring your mama. I’m right here, and I ain’t gonna give up on you.” He pulled again.
This time the piece of hot dog stuck in the boy’s throat exploded from his mouth. He sucked in a ragged breath, then cried out in pain and fear. He fought against Tyrel’s hold.
“Hold up there, partner,” Tyrel said. “Let’s make sure we got it all.”
The boy trembled as he turned back toward Tyrel. When he tilted the boy’s head back, he looked in his mouth and down his throat.
The child was breathing normally now.
“It’s okay,” Tyrel told him. “It’s okay.” He released the boy, who immediately ran to his mother.
She was crying and shaking, but she held her son tightly. The boy held on to her and cried too.
“Thank you,” she told Tyrel. “Thank you so much.”
Tyrel touched his hat and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Glad I was here to help.”
The crowd around them suddenly erupted with applause.
Embarrassed, Tyrel ignored them and turned to walk back to the waiting cab. He intended to finish his escape now that the line was moving again. He was only a few minutes away from freedom.
However, when he stepped from the curb, it felt like the top of his head had come unscrewed and someone had dumped spiders inside. A tickling sensation ate at the edges of his thoughts; then black spots appeared in his vision.