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"I've got to go see the parents. Want to come along and explain how it was all a mistake, sir?"
Valentine's icy tone stiffened the general. "You don't have to say anything to them. If they start anything, the MPs can-"
"No, I've got to do it myself."
"You're the opposite of my other officers, Le Sain. You avoid the pleasurable, and you take on the worst jobs yourself."
" 'If you want to prosper, do the difficult.""
"Who said that?"
"My father."
He left Xray-Tango, passed through the wooden Indians in the headquarters manning late-night communications desks, and walked back to the battalion's camp. Dogs barked at each other in the distance as he crossed the scored scab on the old earth that was Little Rock.
He entered his "battalion" camp. He took no pride in the condition of the tents, the cleanliness and order, or even the painted river rocks along the pathway, markers his old marine contingent had made.
Candles still glowed within the tent. Valentine heard the regular breathing of Hank, and Mr. Smalls' soft snores.
"Ahem. Mrs. Smalls, may I come in?"
"How is she? That wasn't too long," the mother's voice answered. "Please come in."
Valentine let her absence from his arms speak as he entered.
"Mr. and Mrs. Smalls, I'm sorry. It's Caroline. There was a terrible accident. I was going down some stairs to the ..."
The scream from Mrs. Smalls woke Hank and brought Mr. Smalls to his feet.
"It's a lie! It's a lie! Where is she?" Mrs. Smalls cried.
"God's sake, what happened? Tell us the truth," her husband said, while she still spoke.
Valentine had to turn his face partly away, as if he were facing a strong wind. "It's as I said. I slipped, it's my fault. You can't know how sorry-she never felt anything, her neck broke-"
Mrs. Smalls broke into wracking sobs. Hank looked from his grief-stricken parents to Valentine, and back again.
"Where's the body?" Mr. Smalls said. Valentine wished he'd get up and take a swing at him, anything was preferable to the bitterness in his voice.
"It's at the infirmary. Rules. Cholera because of the flooding ... won't get it," Valentine muttered.
"Should've known. It didn't sound right," Tondi Smalls sobbed, clutching at her husband as though dangling from a precipice. Valentine met her gaze, begged her to stop with his eyes. There were no more lies willing to come out of his mouth.
"It was planned!" she went on. "What did you get for it? What did they give you? I hope it was worth it. I hope it was worth my baby! My baby!"
Valentine backed out of the tent, but her words pursued him.
"What was it? What was in it for you? What's my baby gone for? What for?" Her voice broke up against her grief and sank into hysterical sobs.
* * * *
Twenty-four hours later. Dawn was far away. Empty hours until he had an excuse to do something stretched before him. He should be asleep. God knew he was tired ... He'd spent the day on a borrowed horse, in a long fruitless ride along old state route 10, looking for Finner and the Wolves, and hadn't returned until dark. The lonely hours alone on horseback had given him too much time alone with his conscience. He'd eaten a few bites of food before retiring to his tent, but sleep was impossible. Eventually he just sat up and went to work with his pistol.
By the light of a single bulb-the Kurians were efficient at getting the camp electrified-Valentine sat cross-legged on his cot and looked into the open action of his .45. The classic gun was a fine weapon, in the right hands, and Valentine took care of it. He'd taken it apart, cleaned the action, lubricated the slide, then put it back together and wiped it down, rubbing the protective oil into the gun like a masseur.
He picked up a bullet and rolled it around between his fingers. The brass was pitted here and there, scratched. A reload. But the Texas outfitter who'd given him the box of ammunition knew his business with the lead. The nose was a perfect oval, like the narrower end of an egg. Valentine took a tiny file he kept with his gun-cleaning bag and made a tiny X across the tip of the bullet. The shell was a man-stopper, but the channels would help the lead flatten out, or even fragment, and churn through flesh like a buzz saw. When he was satisfied with the modification, it joined the others next to his leg.
The last was trickier. A private joke between him and his conscience. He went to work on it. It took him almost fifteen minutes to do it to his satisfaction, but in the end there was a little horseshoe. A symbol of luck. He regarded it for a moment, smelling the lead filings on the tips of his fingers. He took the horseshoe and added little lines on the ends of the arms of the horseshoe. Now it was an omega. The last letter of the Greek alphabet. The End. Also, oddly enough, an electrical icon indicating resistance. Perfect.
