Rebecca’s state department friend showed up to make sure she and her friends got out, but was surprised to find her making her way from the apartment building with a newborn baby and a seriously wounded Jared Sloan. She had patched him up as best she could with bandages she’d scrounged from a vacant apartment. There wasn’t much more she could do. He had at least two bullets in him and needed proper medical attention as soon as possible. He was in a great deal of pain, feverish, near-delirious-but determined.

“Listen, kid,” her friend said when she explained what had happened. “You’ve got to put it behind you. Never mind the bodies. If Hanoi wants to call you in Boston with a few questions after they get into town, you can talk. Right now we’ve got to get you home.”

He helped them get to a bus pickup point, but he had to get back to the embassy. White-faced and numb, Rebecca thanked him. He said to give Thomas Blackburn his best.

“Tell him if more people’d known what he knew back in ’63, maybe-well, the hell with it. Maybe nothing. Take care of yourself, Rebecca. Call me when you finish your degree.”

She promised him she would.

Then, with a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, Mai in one arm and supporting Jared with the other, she got them onto the bus, which joined a caravan edging cautiously through the city to one of the landing zones where U.S. Marine and Navy helicopters could set down.

By midafternoon, with a photographer clicking away, they climbed aboard a packed Chinook helicopter and lifted high above Saigon, on their way to a U.S. Navy ship in the South China Sea. It was hot and close in the helicopter, and Mai was screaming. Calling upon her experience as the eldest of six, Rebecca tried to comfort the baby, loosening her blanket, cooing. Tam had planned to breast-feed, but Sister Joan had left several ready-made bottles of formula for emergencies. Rebecca had stuffed them into the diaper bag, but she hoped Mai could hang on until they reached the ship. Nothing like a starving, screaming baby to forestall awkward questions from the brass. With Jared wounded and Mai barely a day old, Rebecca knew she’d end up doing all the explaining about who they were and what they were still doing in Saigon.

Mai continued to scream.

Knowing it was an old wives’ tale and unless they had a rash most babies didn’t give a damn whether they were wet or dry, Rebecca gave in to frustration and checked Mai’s diaper.

She pulled out a deep ruby-red velvet bag wrapped in plastic.

Peeking inside, Rebecca saw the ten glittering colored stones.

Tam’s ticket to freedom?

Rebecca shoved them into her pocket, wrapped the baby back up and held her close, until she exhausted herself crying and went back to sleep.

Jared grimaced and coughed a little. Someone had given him a shot of morphine during their wait for the helicopter. He still looked terrible, and despite his assurances he’d be okay, Rebecca could see he was in a state of shock not just from his wounds, but from having witnessed Tam’s murder. She was grateful for having him and Mai to tend: it kept her mind occupied.

“Mai has papers,” he told her. “In the diaper bag.”

“Relax, no one’s going to bug us about papers right now. We’ll take care of the red tape later.”

“No. I promised Tam, R.J. I’m not taking any chances.”

Rebecca dug in the diaper bag and got out the papers and had a look. “It says her name’s Mai Sloan and you’re her father.”

“I know.”

“Is that a mistake?”

His eyes cleared as they held hers, and he said, “No.”

Twenty-Four

Seeing Annette Reed and Jean-Paul Gerard again after so many years combined with his poorly paced walk back to West Cedar Street had left Thomas panting and perspiring. He put on a kettle and waited impatiently for the water to boil. Nerves and exhaustion. How unbecoming, he thought. He would hate to come to the day he’d have to take a taxi to get around the city and hire someone to tend his garden for him. The expense would be aggravating enough, but the indignity-the feeling of utter uselessness-he wouldn’t tolerate. He’d just stay at home and watch his garden rot if it came to that.

“You’re not in a terribly fine mood, my fellow,” he muttered to himself, filling his ironstone teapot with an extra spoon of loose-leaf tea and adding boiling water. The simple chore helped settle him. He brought the teapot and a cup and saucer out into the garden and set them on the dripping-wet table.

The wind and rain had done a job on his impatiens.

“Can’t even keep a few flowers alive,” Thomas grumbled. If he set them out, they’d have a better chance on their own. Ignoring his fatigue, he fetched his claw and hand shovel from the cellar landing and got to work.

He heard Rebecca and Jared come into the kitchen, fussing at each other. Doors slammed, feet stomped. She called him a two-timing son of a bitch who didn’t deserve to be told a damned thing, and he called her a sanctimonious tight-lipped Blackburn who bowed out when the going got tough. Thomas assumed they’d finally started talking to each other. For years he’d hoped they’d accidentally meet at the Grand Canyon or somewhere and have it out. Either one would toss the other over the side, or they’d realize how very much they were meant for each other.

Well, at least that wasn’t his problem.

Rebecca flounced into the garden and dropped into a chair, water and all. Glancing up from his gardening, Thomas could see why. She was a dripping mess herself. He climbed stiffly to his feet with his claw in one hand, dirt clinging to its sharp steel points.

With one finger on Rebecca’s chin, he turned her head so he could examine her cut and bruise. “I told you he could be dangerous.”

She made a face at him. “Who?”

“Our Monsieur Gerard. He clobbered you good, didn’t he?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Grandfather,” she said, in no cheerful mood herself. She opened the lid on his teapot and peered at the steeping tea. He’d quite forgotten about it and in a few minutes it’d be strong enough he could take it out and repave West Cedar. Rebecca dropped the lid back on. “I slipped on the library stairs.”

Thomas set his claw down on the able. “Lying doesn’t become a Blackburn.”

She fastened her sparkling eyes on him, and there was something about her-a certain reluctant grace, an inner strength-that reminded him of Emily. If only she’d lived. Thomas had often wondered how he’d gone on without that lovely, spirited, intelligent woman he’d fallen in love with well over a half century ago. In a way he supposed he hadn’t gone on, at least not very well.

“Lying doesn’t become anyone,” Rebecca said, “but it’s no worse a transgression than withholding the truth. To me it’s a case of splitting hairs.”

“Rebecca…” He broke off, too tired and confused himself to attempt a halfhearted explanation-a rationalization-of the silences he’d kept. And in too ill a temper himself. “Tell me, Rebecca, do you think it your prerogative to know everything I know? To be privy to everything I’ve ever done in my life?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Only to what concerns me.”

“And where do I draw the line? One could make the case that everything that goes on in the world concerns each one of us. There’s an interconnectedness to-”

“Spare me the lecture, Grandfather.”

“Yes, I believe I will,” he said airily, miffed. “Help yourself to tea.”

He brushed the wet dirt off his hands and knees and started back into the kitchen. Rebecca swung around in her chair. “Where are you going?”

“Up to my room.” He glanced back at her. “Do I require your permission?”

She sighed. “Of course not.”

“Good.”

“Grandfather-”

“There’s ice in the freezer,” he said, and left her fuming alone in the garden.