He tried to get Jack to eat a little more, but he was not interested. It was a worrying sign.
As the jungle’s nightlife began to stir, repeating the same evening customs and rhythms, Jack fell into a deep sleep. As if joined by an invisible tether, Fletcher followed after him.
Seventy
An intense cramp in his shoulder plucked Fletcher from his sleep. At first, he thought something was trying to grab him, and he instinctively swung out, connecting only with the rough bark of an adjacent tree. As he regained control of his senses, he realized what was happening. He reached for the inflamed joint and could feel the muscle spasm under his skin. Using his knuckles, he tried to massage away the cramp, but it refused to relent. It took the better part of ten painful minutes to ease.
It suddenly occurred to him that Jack had slept through the entire incident. Normally when they were out on an assignment, the slightest sound would wake him. Even a shift in the wind would rouse him from his sleep. Something was wrong. He pressed his hand against Jack’s chest and felt for a heartbeat.
“Jack. Wake up, boy.”
Nothing.
“C’mon, wake up.”
He lifted his hand to Jack’s nose. It was cold and dry.
“Jack … hey.”
He grabbed the skin around the Labrador’s neck and pulled.
As if trying to awaken from a powerful anesthetic, Jack swallowed heavily, but his eyes remained closed.
“Jack! Stay with me. Do you hear me?”
His ears pricked up, but still he hovered somewhere between sleep and oblivion.
Fletcher quickly sat him up and again tried to feed him. After a few minutes, he managed to get down another two pieces of bread and a sip of water. When he was done, he rested the Labrador’s head on his thigh. He put one hand on his chest and the other two inches in front of Jack’s nose.
The situation was desperate. Jack’s condition was deteriorating by the minute. For the rest of the night, if by sheer will alone, he was going to make sure Jack kept breathing. “Don’t give up on me now, Jack. Our journey’s almost over. Please.”
He looked up at the only square of night sky that was visible to him.
“Not tonight … that’s all I ask of you. Just give me one more day.”
Seventy-one
The morning took forever to arrive. When it finally did, Fletcher wasted no time. He carefully lifted Jack up and climbed out of the vale. Jack had slept peacefully enough, but his condition was dire. In the final hours before sunrise, he had picked up a worrying tremor and his breathing had become labored. He remained in a half sleep.
Although Fletcher no longer had the luxury of a map, he didn’t need one. They simply had to travel west. All that mattered now was moving as quickly and efficiently as possible. He estimated they had at least twenty miles to travel just to reach the Thailand border. From there, however, there was no way of telling how much farther they would have to hike to find help. If, indeed, there was any to be found.
This could still be their undoing, he knew.
Despite protests from his arms and shoulders, he began a slow jog. By midday he needed to, at the very least, have crossed over the border. Jack wouldn’t make another night without medical help, of that he was certain. As Fletcher trundled forward, he realized that his mind no longer seemed capable of complex thought. It appeared to process only basic needs and functions. He was able to control his motor coordination competently enough, but whenever he tried to think of a way out of Thailand or how he was going to smuggle Jack back home, his mind resisted him. Coordinates, time, distance traveled, food reserves, potential water sources, traps, and changes in Jack’s condition were the only real items considered high priority. His mind was conserving energy, focused on keeping them alive. It was only about survival. Everything else was peripheral; his body was saving resources in every way it knew how. What wasn’t required could simply not be drawn upon.
There was, however, one notable exception.
Like a continuous movie reel, images of Abigail and Kelly never totally escaped him. Sometimes they would be in the background, like the sound of the ocean lapping against a distant shore, while other times they drifted right up to him like an encroaching tide. Occasionally the images were so vivid, it seemed as though he could reach out and touch them. Favorite memories would be broadcast over and over again. The day he met Abigail, the red dress she was wearing. The perfumed scent of her skin when they first kissed. Their wedding day. Kelly’s birth. Her first steps. Her first words. Her first day at school. As the memories drifted inexorably toward the crash, Fletcher tried to suppress them. But in the end, he was always left with the shell of a burning plane and the tortured screams of its victims.
* * *
By midday, Fletcher had taken to carrying Jack over his shoulder. His arms could no longer sustain the weight. Unfortunately, it meant a more painful ride for Jack. Each jarring stride was transferred through Fletcher’s shoulder and into the Labrador’s body. Thin rivulets of blood and other fluids from Jack’s wound ran down Fletcher’s chest. He had stopped earlier to rest and had taken the opportunity to try to clean Jack’s paw, but it was pointless. Nothing he could do superficially was going to be of any real help. However, while inspecting his right hip, he had detected a large swollen pocket near his groin. As he applied pressure to it, a thick dollop of black blood oozed out from a small hole in the skin.
He had no idea what it meant, only that it wasn’t good.
Not wanting to dwell on it, he continued on, but now, after only a short while further, they had to rest up again. Fletcher had been dreading the stop, as they were about to finish the last of their water. Jack would be given two sips, and he would take one. On the positive side, he was confident they had covered at least twenty miles. He believed they would cross over into Thailand at any moment.
Perhaps they already had.
He kept searching for signs that they were no longer in Laos, but the terrain never changed. Several times he stopped, believing he could hear activity from a nearby village, but each time he was mistaken. Once, he thought he had heard a child’s voice, but it was only a bird.
His ailing mind was starting to play tricks on him again.
Seventy-two
How could they be lost?
They had been heading west all day, and still there was no sign that they were in Thailand—nothing to confirm they had left Laos. Fletcher felt as though the jungle had become a giant conveyor belt, and they had been drifting around in circles. Irrational as it was, he half expected to soon round a corner only to discover the Strip, deserted, ahead of them.
Was he finally losing his mind? Were they even heading west?
Was he still locked up in his bamboo keep?
He grimaced and felt the corner of his mouth split open. He tried to run his tongue over the cut, but there was no moisture left in his mouth; it felt like he hadn’t swallowed in days. The minor discomfort, however, paled into insignificance when compared to his other complaints. He had large welts and blisters on his shoulders and arms from carrying Jack. His left knee had locked up, and the subsequent compensation in his stride had caused his right ankle to become swollen and sore. Still, the most pain stemmed from the infection in his throat—he was now starting to taste blood.
But this was all background noise.
Jack was dying.
What little life he had left was ebbing away. In Fletcher’s mind, Jack’s remaining hours had become dry sand; the more he tried to hold on to it, the quicker it slipped through his fingers. Soon it would all be gone.
Fletcher was becoming frantic. They were desperate for water. He had tried digging for it, but the muddy reward it offered was outweighed by both the time it wasted and the energy he expended to unearth it. He had even tried to tap certain roots, but his knowledge of the changing flora made it something of a lottery. A sip from a poisonous plant or the ingestion of the wrong berries could be fatal. He had been trained to tr
ap rainwater from even the slightest drizzle, but that first required the heavens to participate. More surprising than the complete lack of rainfall, though, was the notable absence of available fresh water in the area. They had passed a swamp earlier, but Fletcher decided not to drink the noxious water for fear of contracting some form of gastrointestinal complaint. Given their situation, diarrhea could kill them in a matter of hours.
He was trying to deny his growing sense of disorientation, but there were now long stretches in his memory that he could not account for. He had blacked out twice, and his sense of paranoia was growing. He was convinced that a helicopter was doing sweeps over the area. It would swoop down low and hover just above him. It had to be looking for them.
Somehow, it could see through the trees.
Each time he heard the swish of its blades, he would scramble for cover and wait for it to leave, but the chopper seemed determined to hunt him down—as if preternaturally aware of their presence.
Was it real? As the thought infected his mind, he suddenly stopped walking. Through the trees, a bright orange glow reflected on the leaves. He rubbed his eyes then slowly moved toward the light. Carefully, he parted the branches ahead of him.
What he saw was madness.
His own.
His wife and daughter were walking together through the jungle ahead of him. Their bodies were engulfed in flames.
Seventy-three
“Abby … Kelly!” Fletcher cried out, his voice raw and hoarse. He had to get them on the ground to douse their flames. Their clothes, their skin, their hair—everything was ablaze. He could smell their burning flesh. But the harder he chased after them, the farther away they moved. “Abigail … Kelly … stop … it’s me! Please, we have to put out the flames!”
But they kept walking, gliding away from him. They turned suddenly to the right and headed down a steep slope. The area was thick with trees and bushes, but somehow it didn’t impede them at all. Fletcher, still barely clutching on to Jack, plunged down the embankment after them. Branches clawed at his arms, at the skin on his face and chest. He was running as fast as he could, but still couldn’t close the gap between them. They reached the bottom of the slope then quickly ascended up another short hill, moving with impossible speed.
“Why are you running away from me? Please … stop!” he pleaded.
As his words carried up toward them, they finally drew to a halt. Abigail was holding Kelly’s hand, but still their backs were turned to him. Fletcher scrambled up behind them. “Yes! Yes … Abby … Kelly!”
He got within ten feet of them, close enough to feel the heat from the scalding flames, when they both vanished.
“No!” he screamed, collapsing on the spot where they had stood.
The earth was cool under his hands.
As he rubbed the soil between his fingers, a wave of common sense and coherence came to him. If there had been any doubt over his deteriorating mental state, it had been purged by the fiery apparition of his dead family. He stared down at Jack, who was now awake from the chase. The Labrador blinked wearily then closed his eyes again.
“I’m sorry. We’re lost and I’m falling apart. There’s no…”
But his words trailed off as something ahead of him caught his attention. Over the rise, in the distance, was a cluster of huts. Next to them, stretching beyond the trees were three old buildings. On the roof of one of the buildings was a flagpole.
The colors of Thailand flapped gently in the warm breeze.
Seventy-four
Fletcher stared at the scene below him for the better part of a minute. Twice he turned away—praying that when he looked again the village would still be there.
It was.
This wasn’t a cruel apparition drawn from his imagination. The Thai flag seemed to beckon him forward.
“Jesus Christ…” he murmured, his hands trembling. Summoning up the last of his reserves, he cradled Jack in his arms and broke into a run. Tears streamed down his face. His vision was narrowing. He began to scream. His throat, dry and bleeding, was burning with each word. His foot stubbed up against a large root, and he fell down heavily, grazing the skin off both his knees and elbows. He hardly felt it. He scrambled back up and continued running. He had to hurry. He screamed again, louder now. Shielding Jack’s face with his free arm, he charged headfirst into the branches of a row of trees that separated them from possible salvation.
The Thai people heard his strained screams and stopped what they were doing.
It was a typical village day. There were people manning food stalls; some were carrying baskets, riding bicycles, mending shoes. Children were playing at the feet of their parents. As one, they waited and listened.
Suddenly Fletcher burst into view. He took a few unsure steps, reached the sand road that bisected the village, and slumped onto his knees. His chest was heaving. What strength remained in his arms drained away, and Jack rolled gently onto the ground. The villagers watched in silence as Fletcher took a deep breath and shouted the same few words that had caught their attention in the first place.
“Please help me … my dog is dying!” he cried out.
The villagers, stunned by what they were seeing, did not move. All except one.
A girl, too young to appreciate the gravity and potential danger of the moment, let go of her mother’s hand and ran toward him. Her mother shouted to her, but she kept coming. Lying on his side now, Fletcher watched through half-closed eyes as she approached him. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. She was beautiful. Angelic. Her long black hair framed the biggest brown eyes he had ever seen. Her smile warmed his heart. She knelt down beside him and placed her hand gently on the side of his face. She rested her other hand on the top of Jack’s back. Fletcher tried to speak to her, but could feel himself slipping away. His peripheral vision was already lost. He felt like he was drifting off; like an empty vessel floating on the current of a retreating river. His body was shutting down.
The sound of a man’s screams, angry and frantic, punctuated the air. Fletcher looked over the girl’s shoulder and saw two Vietcong soldiers running through the crowd. In Fletcher’s mind’s eye, they seemed to be moving in slow motion. As they reached the road, only feet away from him, they raised their rifles and shouted for the child to move. The mother quickly scooped up her daughter and disappeared into the crowd.
The soldier closest to Fletcher pressed the butt of his AK-47 into his shoulder and widened his stance.
Fletcher tried to lift himself up, but couldn’t. He felt paralyzed, empty. He had nothing left.
But Jack did. The Labrador lifted up on his front legs and dragged himself toward the soldiers.
“No,” Fletcher cried. He stretched out his arm to try to stop him, but Jack was already beyond his reach.
The soldier curled his finger around the trigger and took aim.
Jack snarled and tried to lunge at the man—but fell short, collapsing onto his chest.
Tears burned Fletcher’s eyes as the soldier pulled back on the trigger. “Jack!” Fletcher screamed. “Jaaaack!”
A helicopter, flying fast and low, roared over the treetops. It was traveling at such speed, it seemed certain to crash into the building adjacent to them. The two soldiers immediately swung their rifles up at the chopper as it churned up a tumultuous cloud of dust and grass. As the Huey hovered above them, its blades cutting up the late afternoon sun, a loud voice issued from the chopper’s broadcast system.
Fletcher recognized the message. It was in Vietnamese. It was a phrase they had often used during their missions. It meant “Put down your weapons or die.”
He felt himself first laugh, then he sobbed like a small child.
How could it be? How was it possible?
The voice belonged to a man from another world, another time. It was unmistakable.
It was Rogan.
PART III
The Last Dance
Seventy-five
By the time Fletcher
finally regained consciousness, two days had passed. His body felt like it had endured much of that time being pummeled with tire irons. He found himself lying on a thin mattress on the floor of a small wooden hut. As he surveyed the room, he noticed that the old thatch roof, suspended somewhat precariously above him, was draped in a ghostly veil of spiderwebs.
“I leave them up there to keep out evil spirits,” a woman’s voice offered. “They don’t bother me, and I certainly don’t bother them.”
Fletcher rubbed his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“The spiderwebs. They insulate the room against unwanted spirits. At least that’s what the locals believe. Who am I to question their wisdom, right?”
“I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“A friend of a friend.” She smiled. As she stepped into the room, away from the glare of the doorway, Fletcher was able to get a clear look at her. She was an attractive woman, probably in her early thirties, and appeared to have some Asian blood in her, although her accent was distinctly American. She was exceptionally thin, dangerously so, with long black hair and a soft and kind face.
“My dog,” Fletcher said, clearing his throat. “Please … do you know what happened to him?”
She stared at him, and her smile faded. “I rather think your friends should speak to you about that.”
Fletcher felt his stomach tighten. “I just want to know if he made it.”
The woman knelt down beside him and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. “Everyone’s very happy that you made it.” With that, she stood up and walked away.
“Please, miss … I need to know—” Fletcher began, but stopped when he saw shadows gather on the wall alongside the doorway.
Will Peterson was the first to enter, followed by Mitchell and Rogan. They were carrying Jack on a stretcher.
Fletcher’s breathing stalled.
“Just tell me one thing,” Rogan said. “How in Christ’s name did you do it?”
Finding Jack Page 17