frightening parrots, which erupted like colored clouds and disappeared. An abrupt silence descended on them. When Colgan spoke, he whispered. "This way," he said. He headed upriver. On the uneven slope, his stride was stiff and awkward, that of a man whose legs no longer bent the way they should.
Looking ahead, Bolan saw several charred black squares. He knew immediately what they were.
A village had been razed, the huts burned to nothing. The stumps of their stilts stuck up like black thumbs. Heaps of ashes marked the contours of the village. He had seen it a thousand times in Vietnam. It was almost humbling, how quickly a home could turn to dust. A year from now, there would be no trace of this place. Already plants had rooted in the ash. Thick clumps of greenish-silver grass had sprouted, pushing the ashes up into small cones like volcanoes spewing green lava.
Over the entire scene, something ominous and oppressive choked Bolan, constricting his throat. He could smell it, and he knew what it was. But Colgan pushed on, seemingly oblivious.
And Bolan followed.
Carefully Colgan avoided stepping on the first patch of ashes, drifting toward the waterline before advancing again There was something ceremonial in the action. It was the ad of a man visiting a sacred shrine. Colgan's head was slumped forward on his chest, almost as if he were praying.
Methodically he threaded his way among the rectangular smears. Each of them bled downward, where rain had washed some of the ash toward the river.
The smell got stronger. Against the tree line, on the far side of the ruined village, a long, low mound ran perpendicular to the river. It was already half-green, covered with snaking vines, and grass sprouted haphazardly. Even flowers had taken root in the overturned earth.
Colgan stepped ten feet from the mound. The smell was overpowering now, and both men pinched their noses to keep it at bay. "There," Colgan muttered, his voice strangely unaffected. "There it is. Seventy-three men, women and children. Practically the entire population of the village that used to stand right here." He turned his head slowly, in a dreamlike silence, to see if Bolan understood what he was being told.
Bolan nodded his head. "What happened?" he asked.
"The Leyte Brigade. That's what happened. Charles Harding's handiwork, if you will."
"How do you know?"
"I know, that's all. Never mind how." Colgan dropped to one knee and crossed himself.
Bolan watched quietly as Colgan's lips ran through a silent prayer. When he had finished, Colgan stood up. He started to back away from the mound, then snapped his head sharply and turned away.
Bolan noticed the tears, but said nothing.
Head down, Colgan picked his way back through the ashes. He walked down toward the water and sat on a patch f grass. Bolan followed and took a seat next to him.
"Want to tell me about it?" he asked.
Colgan nodded his head. He opened his mouth, gasping like a landed trout, then swallowed hard.
"Marisa was here when it happened. Her grandmother is buried back there." Colgan pointed toward the mound without turning to look.
"And you're certain Harding had something to do with this?"
"Not personally, at least as far as I can prove, but his organization, yes. Without a doubt. Marisa was here. She saw it all. Do you understand? She saw it happen. They shot her in the head, left her for dead. She survived, but..."
Bolan didn't know what to say. He stared at the water, watching the play of light on its sluggish surface.
Colgan sighed. "You know, I can't understand why it always has to be this way. I just can't understand it."
"It doesn't," Bolan said.
Colgan turned to look at him. "You think that Marcos was the problem here. You think since he's gone, it doesn't have to be this way, but you're dead wrong. Marcos was only part of the problem. Now Aquino is the problem. Not because she's corrupt like Marcos, but because the same corruption is still there. The body rots from the
Looking ahead, Bolan saw several charred black squares. He knew immediately what they were.
A village had been razed, the huts burned to nothing. The stumps of their stilts stuck up like black thumbs. Heaps of ashes marked the contours of the village. He had seen it a thousand times in Vietnam. It was almost humbling, how quickly a home could turn to dust. A year from now, there would be no trace of this place. Already plants had rooted in the ash. Thick clumps of greenish-silver grass had sprouted, pushing the ashes up into small cones like volcanoes spewing green lava.
Over the entire scene, something ominous and oppressive choked Bolan, constricting his throat. He could smell it, and he knew what it was. But Colgan pushed on, seemingly oblivious.
And Bolan followed.
Carefully Colgan avoided stepping on the first patch of ashes, drifting toward the waterline before advancing again There was something ceremonial in the action. It was the ad of a man visiting a sacred shrine. Colgan's head was slumped forward on his chest, almost as if he were praying.
Methodically he threaded his way among the rectangular smears. Each of them bled downward, where rain had washed some of the ash toward the river.
The smell got stronger. Against the tree line, on the far side of the ruined village, a long, low mound ran perpendicular to the river. It was already half-green, covered with snaking vines, and grass sprouted haphazardly. Even flowers had taken root in the overturned earth.
Colgan stepped ten feet from the mound. The smell was overpowering now, and both men pinched their noses to keep it at bay. "There," Colgan muttered, his voice strangely unaffected. "There it is. Seventy-three men, women and children. Practically the entire population of the village that used to stand right here." He turned his head slowly, in a dreamlike silence, to see if Bolan understood what he was being told.
Bolan nodded his head. "What happened?" he asked.
"The Leyte Brigade. That's what happened. Charles Harding's handiwork, if you will."
"How do you know?"
"I know, that's all. Never mind how." Colgan dropped to one knee and crossed himself.
Bolan watched quietly as Colgan's lips ran through a silent prayer. When he had finished, Colgan stood up. He started to back away from the mound, then snapped his head sharply and turned away.
Bolan noticed the tears, but said nothing.
Head down, Colgan picked his way back through the ashes. He walked down toward the water and sat on a patch f grass. Bolan followed and took a seat next to him.
"Want to tell me about it?" he asked.
Colgan nodded his head. He opened his mouth, gasping like a landed trout, then swallowed hard.
"Marisa was here when it happened. Her grandmother is buried back there." Colgan pointed toward the mound without turning to look.
"And you're certain Harding had something to do with this?"
"Not personally, at least as far as I can prove, but his organization, yes. Without a doubt. Marisa was here. She saw it all. Do you understand? She saw it happen. They shot her in the head, left her for dead. She survived, but..."
Bolan didn't know what to say. He stared at the water, watching the play of light on its sluggish surface.
Colgan sighed. "You know, I can't understand why it always has to be this way. I just can't understand it."
"It doesn't," Bolan said.
Colgan turned to look at him. "You think that Marcos was the problem here. You think since he's gone, it doesn't have to be this way, but you're dead wrong. Marcos was only part of the problem. Now Aquino is the problem. Not because she's corrupt like Marcos, but because the same corruption is still there. The body rots from the
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