Bitter Sweets

earth.

    As Ryan had predicted, John Gibson and Gran appeared to be extremely impressed with one another. Toasting with mimosa and nibbling each other’s San Francisco Benedict and creapes Suzette, they seemed a likely twosome. Except that Gran was probably twenty-five years his senior and, of course, John Gibson was already committed, life and heart, to Ryan.

    And who wouldn’t be? Savannah thought as she tried to ignore his thick dark hair, his green eyes with their long black lashes, and the strong jaw that would have been a perfect model for an electric shaver commercial.

    “What is this?” she asked, when he passed her a manila envelope.

    “Good stuff. But I can’t take complete credit. Gibson came up with the information on Earl Mallock’s court-martial.”

    “Court-martial? You’re kidding.”

    “Not at all. Take a look.”

    Savannah thumbed through the documents, which had apparently been faxed to Ryan from numerous government agencies during the past twenty-four hours.

    “Earl Mallock was in the army. Dirk and I found evidence of that in his storage locker,” she said, staring down at his service photo. Young, dark hair cut short, looking heavier than when she had last seen him, Mallock was standing in front of an American flag, wearing a staff sergeant’s uniform and a military police armband.

    “That’s a grim grimace,” she remarked. “I think it’s standard military issue.”

    Her eyes scanned the first paper. “He served in Vietnam...we knew that, too. He received a medical discharge.”

    “Hospitalized. That was how he and Lisa Neilson met. She was a nurse on staff at the VA Hospital; Earl was a patient.”

    “Physical injuries?”

    “Psychological.”

    Savannah glanced over at Gran, aware that a certain amount of discretion might be in order. But Gibson was keeping her occupied with some yarn about having served as a guard at Buckingham Palace. Or, at least, she assumed it was a yarn. With Gibson, one could never tell. He seemed to have lived at least a dozen lives already this time around.

    Locating the documents concerning the court-martial, Savannah read, “Charged with... using excessive force while performing his duties... assigned to guard duty... prisoners of war...accused of...” Savannah dropped the paper and stared at Ryan.

    He nodded. “That’s right. He bound some of his prisoners’ wrists and ankles with piano wire, then tortured them by twisting it tighter and tighter.”

    Crime scene photos that her eyes and brain had already processed flashed through Savannah’s mind. Suddenly, she had no appetite, not even for Fredrico’s cuisine.

    “Dear God,” she whispered. “He’s done it before.”

    “And he got away with it.”

    “How? The military tribunal didn’t believe he did it?”

    “Oh, they know he did it. He never denied that fact. They found him ‘not guilty’ by reason of temporary insanity. It seems he snapped under the accumulated stress and strain of combat.”

    “So, his atrocities were ‘justified’?”

    “Supposedly, or at least understandable. In their opinion, that is.”

    Savannah felt the old rage growing, the fury that those who had committed horrible crimes against their fellow human beings were set free to do it again and again. It was an old story, and she was sick to death of hearing the same, tired ending.

    “How do you suppose he got away with it?” she mused.

    Ryan reached across the table and handed her another document that was several pages thick. “Here is a segment of the trial transcript. The testimony of Earl Mallock’s commanding officer. It’s quite a moving account, a powerful argument on behalf of the accused. Besides, Mallock’s advocate was a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. I’d say it had a lot to do with Mallock’s acquittal.”

    “What kind of man would defend someone who had done something like that?”

    “Someone with a code of honor that might be different from yours or mine. Someone who felt it was his duty to stand beside his men...no matter what they had done.” Ryan lifted his glass, watched the tiny bubbles racing up the sides of the flute in iridescent threads, then took a sip. “That someone was a Captain Forrest Neilson.”

    Savannah sat at her dining room table. Gran to her right, Dirk to her left, and Tammy at the other end, typing furiously into her laptop computer.

    “I already knew about Mallock serving in ‘Nam,” Dirk said, pouting as he