"Never say die" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)

Chapter Twelve

She moved closer. Gradually she discerned, amid the camouflage of trees and undergrowth, the remains of what was once an aircraft. Vines snaked over jagged metal. Fuselage struts reached skyward from the jungle floor, as bare and stark as the bleached ribs of a dead animal. Willy halted, her gaze drawn back to the tail above her in the branches. Years of rust and tropical decay had obscured the markings, but she could still make out the serial number: 5410.

This was Air America flight 5078. Point of origin: Vientiane, Laos. Destination: a shattered treetop in a North Vietnamese jungle.

In the silence of the forest, she bowed her head. A thin shaft of sunlight sliced through the branches and danced at her feet. And all around her the trees soared like the walls of a cathedral. How fitting that this rusted altar to war should come to rest in a place of such untarnished peace.

There were tears in her eyes when she finally forced herself to turn and study the fuselage-what was left of it. Most of the shell had burned or rotted away, leaving only a little flooring and a few crumbling struts. The wings were missing entirely-probably sheared off on impact. She moved forward to the remnants of the cockpit.

Sunlight sparkled through the shattered windshield. The navigational equipment was gutted; charred wires hung from holes in the instrument panel. Her gaze shifted to the bulkhead, riddled with bullet holes. She ran her fingers across the ravaged metal and then pulled away.

As she took a step back, she heard a voice say, "There isn't much left of her. But I guess you could say the same of me."

Willy spun around. And froze.

He came out of the forest, a man in rags, walking toward her. It was the gait she recognized, not the body, which had been worn down to its rawest elements. Nor the face.

Certainly not the face.

He had no ears, no eyebrows. What was left of his hair grew in tortured wisps. He came to within a few yards of her and stopped, as though afraid to move any closer.

They looked at each other, not speaking, perhaps not daring to speak.

"You're all grown up," he finally said.

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "I guess I am."

"You look good, Willy. Real good. Are you married yet?"

"No."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

A pause. They both looked down, looked back up, strangers groping for common ground.

Softly he asked, "How's your mother?"

Willy blinked away a new wave of tears. "She's… dying." She felt a comfortless sense of retribution at her father's shocked silence. "It's cancer," she continued. "I wanted her to see a doctor months ago, but you know how she is. Never thinking about herself. Never taking the time to…" Her voice cracked, faded.

"I had no idea," he whispered.

"How could you? You were dead." She looked up at the sky and suddenly laughed, an ugly sound in that quiet circle of trees. "It never occurred to you to write to us? One letter from the grave?''

"It only would have made things harder."

"Harder than what? Than it's already been?"

"With me gone, dead, Ann was free to move on," he said, "to… find someone else. Someone better for her."

"But she didn't! She never even tried! All she could think about was you. "

"I thought she'd forget. I thought she'd get over me."

"You thought wrong."

He bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Wilone."

After a pause, she said, "I'm sorry, too."

A bird sang in the trees, its sweet notes piercing the silence between them.

She asked, "What happened to you?"

"You mean this?" He gestured vaguely at his face.

"I mean…everything."

"Everything," he repeated. Then, laughing, he looked up at the branches. "Where the hell do I start?" He began to walk in a circle, moving among the trees like a lost man. At last he stopped beside the fuselage. Gazing at the jagged remains, he said, "It's funny. I never lost consciousness. Even when I hit the trees, when everything around me was being ripped apart, I stayed awake all the way down. I remember thinking, 'So when do I get to see heaven?' Or hell, for that matter. Then it all went up in flames. And I thought, "There's my answer. My eternity…'"

He stopped, let out a deep sigh. "They found me a short way from here, stumbling around under the trees. Most of my face was burned away. But I don't remember feeling much of anything." He looked down at his scarred hands. "The pain came later. When they tried to clean the burns. When the nerves grew back. I'd scream at them to let me die, but they wouldn't. I guess I was too valuable."

"Because you were American?''

"Because I was a pilot. Someone to pump for information, someone to trade. Maybe someone to spread the Party line back home… "

"Did they… hurt you?"

He shook his head. "I guess they figured I'd been hurt enough. It was a quieter sort of persuasion. Endless discussions. Relentless arguments as I recovered. I swore I wasn't going to let the enemy twist my head around. But I was weak. I was far from home. And they said things-so many things-I couldn't argue with. And after a while… after a while it made… well, sense. About this country being their house, about us being the burglars in the house. And wouldn't anyone with burglars in their house fight back?"

He let out a sigh. "I don't know anymore. It sounds so feeble now, but I just got tired. Tired of arguing. Tired of trying to explain what I was doing in their country. Tired of trying to defend God only knew what. It was easier just to agree with them. And after a while, I actually started to believe it. Believe what they were telling me." He looked down. "According to some people, that makes me a traitor."

"To some people. Not to me."

He was silent.

"Why didn't you come home?" she asked.

"Look at me, Willy. Who'd want me back?"

"We did."

"No, you didn't. Not the man I'd become." He laughed hollowly. "Everyone would be pointing at me, whispering behind my back, talking about my face. Is that the kind of father you wanted? The kind of husband your mother wanted? Back home, people expect you to have a nose and ears and eyebrows." He shook his head. "Ann…Ann was so beautiful. I-I couldn't go back to that."

"But what do you have here? Look at you, at what you're wearing, at how skinny you are. You're starving, wasting away."

"I eat what the rest of the village eats. It's enough to live on." He picked at the rag that served as his shirt. "Clothes, I never much cared about."

"You gave up a family!"

"I-I found another family, Willy. Here."

She stared at him, stunned.

"I have a wife. Her name's Lan. And we have children. A baby girl and two boys… eight and ten. They can speak English, and a little French… "he said helplessly.

'' We were at home!''

"But I was here. And Lan was here. She saved my life, Willy. She was the one who kept me alive through the infections, the fevers, the endless pain."

"You said you begged to die."

"Lan was the one who made me want to live again."

Willy stared at that man with half a face, the man she'd once called her father. The lashless eyes looked back at her, unblinking. Awaiting judgment.

She still had a face, a normal life, she thought. What right did she have to condemn him?

She looked away. "So. What do I tell Mom?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing."

"She has a right to know."

"Maybe it would be kinder if she didn't."

"Kinder to whom? You or her?"

He looked down at his feet in their dirty slippers. "I suppose I deserve that. Whatever you have to say, I deserve it. But God knows, I wanted to make it up to her. And to you. I sent money-twenty, maybe thirty thousand dollars. You got it, didn't you?"

"We never knew who sent it."

"You weren't supposed to know. Nora Walker arranged it through a bank in Bangkok. It was everything I had. All that was left of the gold."

She gave him a bewildered look and saw that his gaze had shifted toward the plane's fuselage. "You were carrying gold?"

"I didn't know it at the time. It was our little rule at Air America: Never ask about the cargo. Just fly the plane. But after she went down, after I crawled out of the wreckage, I saw it. Gold bars scattered all over the ground. It was crazy. There I was, half my damn face burned off, and I remember thinking, 'I'm rich. If I live through this, son of a bitch,

I'm rich' " He laughed, then, at his own lunacy, at the absurdity of a dying man rejoicing among the ashes. "I buried some of the gold, threw some in the bushes. I thought-I guess I thought it would be my ticket out. That if I was captured, I could use it to bargain for my freedom."

"What happened?"

He looked off at the trees. "They found me. NVA soldiers. And they found most of the gold." He shrugged. "They kept us both."

"But not forever. You didn't have to stay-" She stopped. "Didn't you ever think of us?"

"I never stopped thinking of you. After the war, after all that-that insanity was over, I came back here, dug up what gold they hadn't found. I asked Nora to get it out to you." He looked at Willy. "Don't you see? I never forgot you. I just…" He stopped, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I just couldn't go back.''

In the trees above, branches rattled in the wind. Leaves drifted down in a soft rain of green.

He turned away. "I suppose you'll want to go back to Hanoi. I'll see that someone drives you… "

"Dad?"

He halted, not daring to look at her.

"Your little boys. You-say they understand English?"

He nodded.

She paused. "Then we ought to understand each other, the boys and I." she said. "I mean, assuming they want to meet me… "

Her father quickly rubbed a hand across his eyes. But when he turned to look at her, she could still see the tears glistening there. He smiled…and held out his hand to her.

She'd been gone too long.

Three hours had passed, and Guy was more than worried. He was scared out of his head. Something wasn't right. It was that old instinct of his, that sense of doom closing in, and he was helpless to do anything about it. A dozen different images kept forming in his mind, each one progressively more terrible. Willy screaming. Dying. Or already dead in the jungle. When at last he heard the rumble of the jeep, he was hovering at the edge of panic.

Dr. Andersen was at the wheel. "Good morning, Mr. Barnard!" he called cheerily as Guy stalked over to him.

"Where is she?"

"She is safe."

"Prove it."

Andersen threw open the door and gestured for him to get in. "I will take you to her."

Guy climbed in and slammed the door. "Where are we going?"

"It is a long drive." Andersen threw the jeep into gear and spun them around onto a dirt track. "Be patient."

The night's rainfall had turned the path to muck, and on either side the jungle pressed in, close and strangling. They might have gone for miles or tens of miles; on a road locked in by jungle, distance was impossible to judge. When Andersen finally pulled off to the side, Guy could see no obvious reason for stopping. Only when he'd climbed out and stood among the trees did he notice the tiny footpath leading into the bush. He couldn't see what lay beyond; the forest hid everything from view.

"From here we walk," said Andersen, foraging around for a few loose branches.

"Why the camouflage?" asked Guy, watching Andersen drape the branches over the jeep.

"Protection for the village."

"What are they afraid of?"

Andersen reached under the tarp on the back seat and pulled out an AK-47. Casually, he slung it over his shoulder. "Everything," he said, and headed off into the jungle.

The footpath led into a shadowy world of hundred-foot trees and tangled vines. Watching Andersen's back, Guy was struck by the irony of a doctor lugging an automatic rifle. He wondered what enemy he planned to use it on.

The smells of rotting vegetation, of mud simmering in the heat were only too familiar. "The whole damn jungle smells of death," the GIs used to say. Guy felt his gait change to a silent glide, felt his reflexes kick into overdrive. His five senses were painfully acute; the snap of a branch under Andersen's boot was as shocking as gunfire.

He heard the sounds of the village before he saw it. Somewhere deep in the forest, children were laughing. And then he heard water rushing and the cry of a baby.

Andersen pushed ahead, and as the last curtain of branches parted, Guy saw, beneath a towering stand of trees, the circle of huts. In the central courtyard, children batted a pebble back and forth with their feet. They froze as Guy and Andersen emerged from the forest. One of the girls called out; instantly, a dozen adults emerged from the huts. In silence they all watched Guy.

Then, in the doorway of one hut, a familiar figure appeared. As Willy came toward Guy, he had the sudden desire to take her in his arms and kiss her right then and there, in view of the whole village, the whole world. But he couldn't seem to move. He could only stare down at her smiling face.

"I found him," Willy said.

He shook his head. "What?"

"My father. He's here."

Guy turned and saw that someone else had emerged from the hut. A man without ears, without eyebrows. The horrifying apparition held out its hand; a fingertip was missing.

William Maitland smiled. "Welcome to Na Co, Mr. Barnard."

Dr. Andersen's jeep was easy to spot, even through the camouflage. How fortunate the rains had been so heavy the night before; without all that mud, Siang would never have been able to track the jeep to this trail head.

He threw aside the branches and quickly surveyed the jeep's interior. On the back seat, beneath a green canvas tarp, was a jug of drinking water, a few old tools and a weathered notebook, obviously a journal, filled with scribbling. The name "Dr. Gunnel Andersen" was written inside the front cover.

Siang left the jeep, tramped a few paces into the jungle and peered through the shadows. It took only a moment to spot the footprints. Two men. Dr. Andersen and who else? Barnard? He followed the tracks a short way and saw that, just beyond the first few trees, the footprints led to a distinct trail, no doubt an old and established path. The village of Na Co must lie farther ahead.

He returned to the limousine where the man was waiting. "They have gone into the forest," Siang said. "There's a village trail."

"Is it the right one?"

Siang shrugged. "There are many villages in these mountains. But the jeep belongs to Dr. Andersen."

"Then it's the right village." The man sat back, satisfied. "I want our people here tonight."

"So soon?"

"It's the way I work. In and out. The men are ready."

In fact the mercenary team had been waiting two days for the signal. They'd been assembled in Thailand, fifteen men equipped with the most sophisticated in small arms. As soon as the order went through, they would be on their way, no questions asked.

"Tell them we need the dogs as well," said the man. "For mopping up. The whole village goes."

Siang paused. "The children?"

"One mustn't leave orphans."

This troubled Siang a little, but he said nothing. He knew better than to argue with the voice of necessity. Or power.

"Is there a radio in the jeep?" asked the man.

"Yes," said Siang.

"Rip it out."

"Andersen will see-"

"Andersen will see nothing."

Siang nodded in instant understanding.

The man drove off in the limousine, headed for a rendezvous spot a mile ahead. Siang waited until the car had disappeared, then he trotted back to the jeep, ripped out the wires connecting the radio and smashed the panel for good measure. He found a cool spot beneath a tree and sat down. Closing his eyes, he summoned forth the strength needed for his task.

Soon he would have assistance. By tonight, the well paid team of mercenaries would stand assembled on this road. He wouldn't allow himself to think of the victims-the women, the children. It was a consequence of war. In every skirmish, there were the innocent casualties. He'd learned to accept it, to shrug it off as inevitable. The act of pulling a trigger required a clear head swept free of emotions. It was, after all, the way of battle.

It was the way of success.

"Does she understand the danger?" asked Maitland.

"I don't know." Guy stood in the doorway and gazed out at the leaf-strewn courtyard where the village kids were mobbing Willy, singing out questions. The wonderful bedlam of children, he thought wistfully. He turned and looked at the mass of scars that was Bill Maitland's face. "I'm not sure I understand the danger."

"She said things have been happening."

"Things? More like dead bodies falling left and right of us. We've been followed every-"

"Who's been following you?"

"The local police. Maybe others."

"The Company?"

"I don't know. They didn't come and introduce themselves."

Maitland, suddenly agitated, began to pace the hut. "If they've traced you here…"

"Who're you hiding from? The Company? The local police?"

"To name a few."

"Which is it?"

"Everyone."

"That narrows it down."

Maitland sat down on the sleeping pallet and rested his head in his hands. "I wanted to be left alone. That's all. Just left alone."

Guy gazed at that scarred scalp and wondered why he felt no pity. Surely the man deserved at least a little pity. But at that instant, all Guy felt was irritation that Maitland was thinking only of himself. Willy had a right to a better father, he thought.

"Your daughter's already found you," he said. "You can't change that. You can't shove her back into the past."

"I don't want to. I'm glad she found me!"

"Yet you never bothered to tell her you were alive."

"I couldn't." Maitland looked up, his eyes full of pain. "There were lives at stake, people I had to protect. Lan, the children-"

"Who's going to hurt them?" Guy moved in, confronted him. "It's been twenty years, and you're still scared. Why? What kind of business were you in?"

"I was just a pawn-I flew the planes, that's all. I never gave a damn about the cargo!"

"What was the cargo? Drugs? Arms?"

"Sometimes."

"Which?"

"Both."

Guy's voice hardened. "And which side took delivery?"

Maitland sat up sharply. "I never did business with the enemy! I only followed orders!"

"What were your orders on that last flight?"

"To deliver a passenger."

"Interesting cargo. Who was he?"

"His name didn't show up on the manifest. I figured he was some Lao VIP. As it turned out, he was marked for death." He swallowed. "It wasn't the enemy fire that brought us down. A bomb went off in our hold. Planted by our side. We were meant to die."

"Why?"

There was a long silence. At last, Maitland rose and went to the doorway. There he stared out at the circle of huts. "I think it's time we talked to the elders."

"What can they tell me?"

Maitland turned and looked at him. "Everything."

Lan's baby was crying in a corner of the hut. She put it to her breast and rocked back and forth, cooing, yet all the time listening intently to the voices whispering in the shadows.

They were all listening-the children, the families. Willy couldn't understand what was being said, but she could tell the discussion held a frightening significance.

In the center of the hut sat three village elders-two men and a woman-their ancient faces veiled in a swirl of smoke from the joss sticks. The woman puffed on a cigarette as she muttered in Vietnamese. She gestured toward the sky, then to Maitland.

Guy whispered to Willy. "She's saying it wasn't your father's time to die. But the other two men, the American and the Lao, they died because that was the death they were fated all their lives to meet… "He fell silent, mesmerized by the old woman's voice. The sound seemed to drift like incense smoke, curling in the shadows.

One of the old men spoke, his voice so soft, it was almost lost in the shifting and whispers of the audience.

"He disagrees," said Guy. "He says it wasn't fate that killed the Lao."

The old woman vehemently shook her head. Now there was a general debate about why the Lao had really died. The dissenting old man at last rose and shuffled to a far corner of the hut. There he pulled aside the matting that covered the earthen floor, brushed aside a layer of dirt and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle. With shaking hands he pulled apart the ragged edges. Reverently, he held out the object within.

Even in the gloom of the hut, the sheen of gold was unmistakable.

"It's the medallion," whispered Willy. "The one Lassiter told us about."

"The Lao was wearing it,'' said her father.

The old man handed the bundle to Guy. Gingerly, Guy lifted the medallion from its bed of worn cloth. Though the surface was marred by slag from the explosion, the design was still discernable: a three-headed dragon, fangs bared, claws poised for battle.

The old man whispered words of awe and wonder.

"He saw a medallion just like it once before," said Maitland. "Years ago, in Laos. It was hanging around the neck of Prince Souvanna."

Guy took in a sharp breath. "It's the royal crest. That passenger-"

"Was the king's half brother," said Maitland. "Prince Lo Van."

An uneasy murmur rippled through the gathering.

"I don't understand," said Willy. "Why would the Company want him dead?"

"It doesn't make sense," said Guy. "Lo Van was a neutral, shifting to our side. And he was straight-arrow, a clean leader. With our backing, he could've carved us a foothold in Laos. That might have tipped the scales in our favor."

"That's what he was meant to do," said Maitland. "That crate of gold was his. To be dropped in Laos."

"To buy an army?" asked Willy.

"Exactly."

"Then why assassinate him? He was on our side, so-"

"But the guys who blew up the plane weren't," said Guy.

"You mean the Communists planted that bomb?"

"No, someone more dangerous. One of ours."

The elders had fallen silent. They were watching their guests, studying them the way a teacher watches a pupil struggle for answers.

Once again the old woman began to speak. Maitland translated.

'"During the war, some of us lived with the Pathet Lao, the Communists in Laos. There were few places to hide, so we slept in caves. But we had gardens and chickens and pigs, everything we needed to survive. Once, when I was new to the cave, I heard a plane. I thought it was the enemy, the Americans, and I took my rifle and went out to shoot it down. But my cell commander stopped me. I could not understand why he let the plane land. It had enemy markings, the American flag. Our cell commander ordered us to unload the plane. We carried off crates of guns and ammunition. Then we loaded the plane with opium, bags and bags of it. An exchange of goods, I thought. This must be a stolen plane. But then the pilot stepped out, and I saw his face. He was neither Lao nor Vietnamese. He was like you. An American.'"

"Friar Tuck," said Guy softly.

The woman looked at them, her eyes dark and unreadable.

"I've seen him, too," said Maitland. "I was being held in a camp just west of here when he landed to make an exchange. I tell you, the whole damn country was an opium factory, money being made left and right on both sides. All under cover of war. I think that's why Lo Van was killed. To keep the place in turmoil. There's nothing like a dirty war to hide your profits."

"Who else has seen the pilot's face?" Guy asked in Vietnamese, looking around the room. "Who else remembers what he looked like?"

A man and a woman, huddled in a corner, slowly raised their hands. Perhaps there were others, too timid to reveal themselves.

"There were four other POWs in that camp with me," said Maitland. "They saw the pilot's face. As far as I know, not a single one made it home alive."

The joss sticks had burned down to ashes, but the smoke still hung in the gloom. No one made a sound, not even the children.

That's why you're afraid, thought Willy, gazing at the circle of faces. Even now, after all these years, the war casts its shadow over your lives.

And mine.

"Come back with us, Maitland," said Guy. "Tell your story. It's the only way to put it behind you. To be free."

Maitland stood in the doorway of his hut, staring out at the children playing in the courtyard.

"Guy's right," said Willy. "You can't spend your life in hiding. It's time to end it."

Her father turned and looked at her. "What about Lan? The children? If I leave, how do I know the Vietnamese will ever let me back into the country?"

"It's a risk you have to take," said Guy.

"Be a hero-is that what you're telling me?" Maitland shook his head. "Let me tell you something, Barnard. The real heroes of this world aren't the guys who go out and take stupid risks. No, they're the ones who hang in where they're needed, where they belong. Maybe life gets a little dull. Maybe the wife and kids drive ' em crazy. But they hang in." He looked meaningfully at Willy, then back at Guy. "Believe me. I've made enough mistakes to know."

Maitland looked back at his daughter. "Tonight, you both go back to Hanoi. You've got to go home, get on with your own life, Willy."

" If she gets home," said Guy.

Maitland was silent.

"What do you think her chances are?" Guy pressed him mercilessly. "Think about it. You suppose they'll leave her alone knowing what she knows? You think they'll let her live?"

"So call me a coward!" Maitland blurted out. "Call me any damn name you please. It won't change things. I can't leave this time." He fled the hut.

Through the doorway, they saw him cross the courtyard to where Lan now sat beneath the trees. Lan smiled and handed their baby to her husband. For a long time he sat there, rocking his daughter, holding her tightly to his chest, as though he feared someone might wrench her from his grasp.

You have the world right there in your arms, Willy thought, watching him. You 'd be crazy to let it go.

"We have to change his mind," said Guy. "We have to get him to come back with us."

At that instant Lan looked up, and her gaze met Willy's. "He's not coming back, Guy." Willy said. "He belongs here."

"You're his family, too," Guy protested.

"But not the one who needs him now." She leaned her head in the doorway. A leaf fluttered down from the trees and tumbled across the courtyard. A bare-bottomed baby toddled after it. "For twenty years I've hated that man…" She sighed. And then she smiled. "I guess it's time I finally grew up."

"Something's wrong. Andersen should've been back by now."

Maitland stood at the edge of the jungle and peered up the dirt road. From where the doctor's jeep had been parked, tire tracks led northward. The branches he'd used for camouflage lay scattered at the roadside. But there was no sign of a vehicle.

Willy and Guy wandered onto the road, where they stood puzzling over Andersen's delay.

"He knows you're waiting for him," said Maitland. "He's already an hour late."

Guy kicked a pebble and watched it skitter into the bushes. "Looks like we're not going back to Hanoi tonight. Not without a ride." He glanced up at the darkening sky. "It's almost sunset. I think it's time to head back to the village."

Maitland didn't move. He was still staring up the road.

"He might have a flat tire," said Willy. "Or he ran out of gas. Either way, Dad, it looks like you're stuck with us tonight." She reached out and threaded her arm in his. "Guy's right. It's time to go back."

"Not yet."

Willy smiled. "Are you that anxious to get rid of us?"

"What?" He glanced at his daughter. "No, no, of course not. It's just…" He gazed up the road again. "Something doesn't feel right."

Willy watched him, suddenly sharing his uneasiness. "You think there's trouble."

"And we're not ready for it," he said grimly.

"What do you mean?" said Guy, turning to look at him. "The village must have some sort of defenses."

"We have maybe one working pistol, a few old war relics that haven't been used in decades. Plus Andersen's rifle. He left it today."

"How many rounds?"

"Not enough to-" Maitland's chin suddenly snapped up. He spun around at the sound of an approaching car.

"Hit the deck!" Guy commanded.

Willy was already leaping for the cover of the nearest bush. At the same instant, Guy and Maitland sprang in the other direction, into the foliage across the road from her.

She barely made it to cover in time. Just as she landed in the dirt, a jeep rounded the bend. Through the tangle of underbrush, she saw that it was filled with soldiers. As it roared closer, she tunneled frantically under the branches, mindless of the thorns clawing her face, and curled up among the leaves to wait for the jeep to pass. Something scurried across her hand. Instinctively she flinched and saw a fat black beetle drop off and scuttle into the shadows. Only then, as her gaze followed the insect, did she notice the strange chattering in the branches and she saw that the earth itself seemed to shudder with movement.

Dear God, she was lying in a whole nest of them!

Choking back a scream, she jerked sideways.

And found herself staring at a human hand. It lay not six inches from her nose, the fingers chalk white and frozen into a beckoning claw.

Even if she'd wanted to scream, she couldn't have uttered a sound; her throat had clamped down beyond all hope of any cry. Slowly her gaze traveled along the arm, followed it to the torso, and then, inexorably, to the face.

Gunnel Andersen's lifeless eyes stared back at her.