"My mother always told me he was buried in the military cemetery near your town." Despite the pressure in his chest, he forced himself on. "As long as I was in France, I figured I should pay my respects. But dammit, there's no record of his being buried there. I didn't understand. Then I remembered that Pierre de St. Laurent had written to my mother, saying he'd maintain the grave. I figured if I talked to St. Laurent, then he would tell me where the grave is."

She was totally bewildered. "And that's . . . ? You believe your wife died and that janitor and nearly you and I because somebody wants to stop you from locating where your father's buried?"

"No. You put it that way, it sounds foolish."

"What then?"

Houston drew on his cigarette. "It's not easy. Every time the thought suggests itself, I smother it. I mean, it's so insane that if I found out it was true I'd "

"Peter." Her eyes appealed to him. "It can't be any more insane than what's already happened. Tell me," she said. "Trust me."

Houston nodded. "You have to understand. I never knew my father. He was killed about the same time I was born. My mother glorified him. She told me how smart he was, how handsome, how he loved us. He was tall and strong, and he was good at fixing cars, and he could sing like an opera star. He was a saint to us. But all the time I was growing up, I saw the fathers my friends had, and I envied them. I knew those fathers couldn't be as wonderful as mine had been, but they were living, and I wished with all my heart that one of them was mine. I asked my mother if she ever planned on marrying again. She told me, Til never find a man to match your father.' And she didn't. To her death, she stayed unmarried."

He blew smoke. Simone picked up the bottle and drank. Her brow was furrowed.

"Kids are so inventive," Houston said. "Let's call it fantasy, a child's suspicion based on insecurity. Or maybe we should call it hope." He shook his head. "But I began to have this daydream. Soon it came to me when I was sleeping. I invited it. I a.n.a.lyzed it. I imagined different I don't know scenarios I guess adults would call them. What if he had never died?

Supposing he had lost his memory and didn't know he had a wife and son. Or let's try this. Supposing he'd been mutilated, scarred so badly that he couldn't bring himself to let us see his ugliness. Or worse, the blackest possibility.

Supposing he was perfectly all right, but he'd decided that he didn't want to come back home. That he'd abandoned us, that he had turned his back on me and left me to grow up alone."

Houston felt his sudden tears. His throat was bitter. He pinched off his cigarette as if to crush his sorrow, hoping that the pain of his burned fingers would distract him.

"Peter," she said softly. She stood and moved close to him. She put her hands on his shoulders.

But he was shaking, and though he smelled her perfume, Houston couldn't make himself look up at her. "It's like I said," he told her, eyes shut. "Kids can be inventive."

Now her hands were tight on his shoulders. "You suspect your father's still alive?" Her voice was taut with incredulity. And something else an eerie terror.

"In time, the boy put away his fantasies. He finally grew up. But now I find out that my father isn't buried where my mother said he was, and that Pierre de St.

Laurent dropped out of sight, and Christ, I want to know what's going on! If what my mother said about his grave isn't true, then what else isn't? How many other things I took for granted won't be what I thought they were? The only man who knows for sure is St. Laurent, and someone's so uptight about us finding him that so far he's tried twice to kill me. And he killed my wife, and "

Houston's voice broke. She pulled him toward her, pressed his face against her stomach, held him, soothed him.

They both stiffened at a knock on the door.

They turned uneasily. A louder knock.

Simone went over. Wiping his tears, Houston watched her pull the door ajar. He braced himself, on guard.

He heard the aged woman's voice.

Simone replied. The woman answered. The woman's footsteps shuffled down the stairs.

Simone closed the door. "She says we're keeping her awake."

He nodded. "It's just as well. If I keep on like this, I'll be a basket case."

She came across, studying him. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

"We'll find Pierre de St. Laurent," she said. "One way or another, we'll find all your answers."

Sleep came sooner than he had expected. When Simone turned off the light, he heard her slippered feet pad toward the bed. He heard the sound of her robe as she removed it, then the rustle of the sheets as she crawled beneath the covers.

He drifted, and he dreamed, and in his dream, he once again was at 113 Rue Gabriel. He left the office with Simone. He watched the janitor go in. Once again he heard the phone ring. The explosion threw him down the stairs. He felt Simone land hard on him. He lifted her. But then he saw the way her head was twisted at a grotesque angle, saw the fist-sized chunk of wood imbedded in her forehead. She was dead. My G.o.d, he'd killed her! First Jan, then Simone. Not once, but twice. He screamed as Simone's dead eyes peered toward him. He kept screaming. He was running in a panic.

"Peter!"

He struggled with the hands that grabbed him.

"Pete, it's nothing! It's a nightmare!"

He blinked, trembling, staring at Simone who'd grabbed him as he struggled from the chair.

"Not once, but twice," he said.

"Pete, it's over. You were dreaming."

"Once, then twice."

His skin was gooseflesh. He fumbled toward the light switch and turned toward her in the sudden glare. "It happened twice," he told her, breathless.

"Yes, I know. The car wreck, then the bomb. What is it?"

"That's not what I mean." His understanding jolted him as if he'd been shocked.

Because at last he recalled that nagging detail. "Twice. It happened twice before. The cemetery. Last month someone else came looking for his father's grave. The sergeant couldn't find it. And last year. The sergeant said it happened then as well."

Houston watched Simone's eyes widen.

"Oh, my G.o.d," she said. "There are other missing graves?"

Chapter 20.

He yanked the gearshift into second. The Renault whined up the hill, then swooped across the summit. He switched into third. "There it is."

She gasped.

"You've never seen it?"

"Didn't want to be reminded. Lord, how many mother's sons?"

"Ten thousand."

"Oh," she said. "The waste."

He slowed down at the iron gate, then raced across the parking lot. His brakes squealed as he skidded to a stop before the american BATTLE MONUMENT sign.

They rushed toward the wide low building. Houston pushed through, held the door for her, then turned. Past the dioramas in the middle of the room, he saw the lean, tall clerk behind the counter.

The clerk was like a robot, triggered by the clatter of approaching footsteps.

He stood straighter. "Yes, sir? Mr. . . . Houston? How are you today?"

"The superintendent."

"Sir, he's busy in his office."

"Get him."

"If you've found more information, you should talk to me."

"I told you I want Andrews."

Now the clerk appeared offended. Shrugging, he turned toward the superintendent's door.

He didn't have to knock. It opened.

Shoulders braced, Andrews stepped out, rolling down his sleeves. His muscles swelled his crisp, clean shirt. "I'm sorry, Mr. Houston." He shook hands. "I've learned nothing."

"But I have," Houston said.

Andrews studied him. He glanced puzzled toward Simone.

"My wife . . ." Houston swallowed. "She's dead. This woman's helping me."

Andrews stiffened. "Dead? But that's . . ."

"I don't want to talk about it." Houston's voice was angry, cracking. "It's too painful. Somehow, without wanting to, I've stumbled into something. Look, I've got to ask a question."

"Anything," Andrews told him.

"When my wife and I were here, you told us mistakes can sometimes happen."

"Yes, that's true. The military isn't perfect."

"Then you gave me two examples."

"I don't "

"Last year someone else came looking for his father's grave but couldn't find it."

"True."

"The same thing happened last month, you said. I need their names."

"But why?" The superintendent's forehead furrowed deeply.

He leaned forward. "You're suggesting " "Please. I need the names." " that there's a link, that if we find one grave we'll find the others."

"I don't know. I'm only guessing. But I can't help feeling something's wrong.

Coincidence? Well, maybe. But I "

"Just a moment."

Houston watched the superintendent disappear into his office. For a brutal instant he was so reminded of the first time he had been here, Jan beside him, that he hoped insanely if he turned his head he'd see her.

Instead Simone was facing him. His grief swelled, aching.

"Jeffrey Hutchinson." Andrews returned with a piece of paper in his hand. "I couldn't find the other name. Last month he left his number and address in case I found out where the grave is."

Houston took out his wallet. "I can pay for you to make the call, or I can try to find a public phone." "What? I don't " "If he was here last month, then he's had time to get back home.

I have to talk to him."

"But why? He told me everything he knows."

"I think there's something he forgot."

Andrews frowned at him. "You're that convinced that something's wrong, that all of this has some connection?"

"There's just one way to find out."

Andrews thought a moment. "Transatlantic. It's still night back in the States."

"Then probably he's sleeping. There's a good chance he'll be home."

Andrews stared at him. "I'll tell you what. I'll make a deal with you. If this turns out to be a huge mistake, you pay the Department of Defense for the phone call. If you're right, then put your money in your pocket."

"I don't care about the money. All I want to do is talk to him."

Andrews nodded. "In my office."

Houston was again reminded of the first time he had been here. He had followed Janice into the superintendent's office.

This time he followed Simone, and in the interval between these visits, everything had changed. He felt his anger, felt his grief again.

The fluorescent lights still hummed in the narrow office. Andrews picked up the wall phone; he pointed toward the hard steel chairs. "This takes some time."

But Houston stopped him. "Wait."