"Oh, there's a Charlie here that surprised me."

"Listen, call Tom Marbella at Treasury in DC. He collates the letter files; he'll let you know what's what."

Some minutes later, Nick managed to track down Marbella and Marbella said he'd check it out, let him know, and some time after that -- it was the next day, actually -- Marbella called back.

"Okay, I've got the file up on my computer terminal now. Your boy seems to think he should have won the Congressional Medal of Honor," said Marbella.

"Hmm," said Nick, a noise he made when he wanted to indicate he was on the phone still, but that he had no attitude or information to convey.

"Three weeks ago, he writes a letter to the president, explaining that the Marine Corps screwed him out of the Congressional Medal of Honor that was his by rights, just like his dad's, and that he now wanted his medal, and would the president please send it on?"

"And that gets him on a Secret Service list?"

"Hey, after sixty-three, anything gets you on a Secret Service list, friend. We take no chances. We win no friends, but we take no chances."

"Is there anything threatening in the letter?"

"Uh, well, our staff psychiatrist says so. It's not an explicit threat so much as a tone. Listen to this. 'Sir, I only request that the nation give me that which is my due, as I served my country well in the jungles. It's quite important to me that I get this medal [exclamation point]. It is mine [exclamation point]. I earned it [exclamation point]. There's no two ways about it, sir, that medal is mine [exclamation point].' "

Nick shook his head. Like so many others, the great Bob the Nailer, the warrior champion of Vietnam, the master sniper, had yielded to vanity too. It was no longer enough merely to have done the impossible on a routine basis and to know that you and you alone were of the elect. No, in his surrender, Bob, like so many others, wanted celebrity, attention, validation. More. More for me. I want more and I want it now. It's my turn.

That's what Nick ran into all the time on the streets. Somehow in America it had stopped being about us or we or the team or the family; it was this me-thing that turned people crazy. They expected so much. They thought they were so important. Everybody was an only child.

But it seemed so un-Bob-like somehow.

"It sounds pretty harmless to me," Nick said.

"It's the exclamation points. Four of 'em. Our reading is that exclamation points indicate a tendency toward violence. Not an inclination, but a tendency, a capacity to let go. That's the theory at any rate, though the truth is, we've found that letter writers almost never go to guns. They just don't. For most of them, writing the letter is the thing that satisfies them, they sit back and everything is nice. Still, this guy is supposedly a hell of a shot, or was at one time. He used four exclamation points. And we do have it on record that he did go to New Orleans -- "

"Yeah, I've confirmed that -- "

"And so we put him on the Charlie list. Check him out, see if he deserves an upgrade to Beta -- "

"That's what I'm doing."

"I know the Charlie list is shit, Memphis. Nobody likes to do the Charlie list. Usually the guys just out of training end up doing Charlies. You sound, um, a little old for Charlies."

"Look, I do what my boss says, that's all."

"We appreciate it. Glad to have the Bureau's help."

"How did you know he was in New Orleans?"

"Huh?"

"You said, 'And he was in New Orleans.' How did you know that?"

"Uh," said Marbella, "it says so. Right here in his file."

"But where did that information come from? I mean, a snitch, another agency, a cop shop, the Pentagon, the VA?"

"Hey, it doesn't say. You know, this stuff comes in from all over, some of it pretty raw. 0What's the big deal?"

"Is somebody watching Swagger?"

"Shit, man. I'm the last guy to know. And it doesn't say a thing here. It's just raw data, Memphis. Some of it's accurate, some of it isn't. It's up to you to check it out, okay, bud?"

"Yeah, sure. Hey, thanks a lot," Nick said. He hung up.

What should I do? I should do something.

He called Directory Information for the state of Arkansas, learned quickly that Bob Lee Swagger had no listed or unlisted phone number. He called the Arkansas State Police, and found that Bob Lee Swagger was not under investigation or indictment of any sort, but from that he learned Bob's address, which was simply Rural Route 270, Blue Eye. Finally, he called Vernon Tell, who was the sheriff of Polk County, Arkansas, and after giving the FBI identification code, quickly got to the sheriff himself.

"Bob Lee? Bob Lee just lives up the mountain by himself. That's all."

"Any problems with him?"

"No, sir. Not the most sociable fellow in the world, no, sir. Bob Lee keeps to himself and don't like people picking at him. But he's a good man. He done his country proud in the war, and his daddy done his country proud and Earl's daddy Lucas was actually the sheriff back in the twenties. They're all old Polk County folks, and wouldn't hurt nobody didn't hurt them first."

But it bothered Nick that Bob lived alone, away from society, with a lot of guns. The profile of the loner gunman had proved out too many times to be coincidental.

"Any drinking or substance abuse problems?"

"Mr. Memphis, believe me, it would be a lie if I didn't tell you some years back, Bob Lee had a problem with the bottle and had some wild times. He's always in pain, you know, because of the way he was hurt in the war. But I believe Bob Lee has found himself in some way. All he wants from life is freedom and to be left alone."

"What about medals? Has he ever said anything about medals? Are medals important to him?"

"To Bob Lee? Let me tell you something, son -- were you in the war or anything?"

"No sir, I wasn't."

"Well, son, the only people that are interested in medals are the ones that are fixing to run for office some day. I went from one side of Burma to the other with General Merrill's Marauders in 1943 and 1944, and the only man I ever saw who wanted a medal or cared about a medal later became the only governor of Colorado to be impeached. No, son, Bob Lee Swagger don't give two damns and a jar of cold piss about medals. I've been out to his place a time or so and you'd be hard pressed to find an indication anywhere that this man was one of the bravest heroes our country ever produced."

Somehow, that pleased Nick.

And that night, when Herm dropped by, he said, "Nick, you got any Charlies to butt on up to Beta or Alpha classification?"

Nick answered, "Yes," and he had three names, men who seemed dangerous but whom he had not been able to turn up.

Bob Lee Swagger was not on the list.

At last he was out of the office. Sitting in a swamp, as a matter of fact, but at least, indisputably, out of the office.

He sat in the back of a Secret Service van, with Herm Sloane and his partner Jeff Till as Till, the expert, fumbled and cursed at a control console. The van was all dressed up with electronic gear.

"Not a goddamn thing," said Till.

"Are you sure it's reading?" said Sloane.

"I'm not sure of a goddamn thing," said Till, a little neurotically. "All the lights are red, we're on the right directional beam, but believe me, I am getting absolutely nothing but hum and static. It's making me crazy."

Nick let the two chums take turns cursing the equipment that flickered wanly in front of them.

Outside, there was nothing but bayou and hanging cypress and the swish and rustle of swamp water and small, mean creatures squishing through the mud. Somewhere three hundred yards ahead -- at least in theory -- there was a farmhouse that doubled as the headquarters of the White Beacon of Racial Purity, a rabidly antiblack group said to be floating around the fringes of the New Orleans loonies culture. These were fat-bellied white guys with tattoos and Ruger Mini-14's, their favorite piece, far to the right of the Klan, good old, mean old boys who'd dropped out of the Klan because it was too dang soft. That is, if they existed. Nick was privately of the opinion that it was a policeman's fantasy, or rather an easy out; any inconvenient crime could be blamed on the White Beacon, and thereby consigned to the unsolved files without much in the way of an investment in time or energy. He had once spent a week trying to get a fix on them, concluding that there was nothing but vapors of hate and rumors feeding on rumors.

But, on a tip that Sloane had gotten from a detective in the New Orleans Gang Intelligence Division, he and his partner and, as local representative, the reluctant Nick Memphis had come out well past midnight in the Service's electronic monitoring vehicle in order to penetrate the farmhouse -- no warrant was necessary if the penetration was done via parabolic microphone -- and see what the White Beacon boys were up to, if there were White Beacon boys and if this was the farmhouse where they were meeting. Nick knew at least three sly old Cajun detectives who'd drink themselves goofy in merry recollection of having sent three Northern federal whiteboys out into the swamps for a night, listening to the cicadas. But he said nothing.

"It can't be a goddamn overlapping signature," said Till. "It's just junk equipment. It isn't even digital, for Christ's sake."

"Maybe the beam isn't getting through the trees," said Sloane.

"Maybe it's the goddamn junk equipment," said Till again.

But Nick felt as if he was in the space cruiser Enterprise, it was so high-tech.

"What's wrong with the equipment?" he asked. "Man, if we have a big bust, we have to requisition our EV from Miami."

"We been trying to get an upgrade for years," said Till. "This piece of shit always goes into a zone two weeks before the Man does. But it was built in the sixties and it's so far from being state of the art, it can't even pick up HBO! It's a piece of shit!"

"You need an Electrotek 5400," Nick said innocently.

"Jesus, yeah!" said Till. "Sure, but I don't have a million bucks lying around to spend on listening in on people. Hell, all I'm trying to do is protect the life of the president of the United States, that's all. How'd you ever hear of an Electrotek? That goddamn thing's top secret."

"Guy told me. Said there were seven in the world."

"No, they built five or six more. Yeah, wouldn't it be sweet if we had one. Man, we wouldn't have to go to this fucking swamp. We could go to the parking lot and tune in."

"It's the Agency and DEA that have them, right?"

"And certain overseas clients with very high and tight connections."

"I heard some guys got them in Salvador."

"Wouldn't surprise me. No death squad would be complete without them. Meanwhile, guys like us who are trying to work for a living, we get a piece of sixties shit like this. Man, I think I'm getting Country Joe and the Fish on these earphones."

Nick shut up for a while then, as Till jimmied and dicked with the equipment.

"I got something," he finally said.

"Tape rolling?"

"Tape rolling fine. Ah, let me see if I can amplify it and bring it out..."

Nick heard a babble of voices chattering over the loudspeakers: "You know, dem boys, dey be, you know, um, dey be hawmping in de woods fer ole gata, lemme tell you, um, dey be hawmping da swamps, shooooo-eee, boy, wif dem, like lights, you know, you know what I'm saying, lights, like, and when dem boys git in reals close, wham, wham!, you know -- "

"I hate to tell you," Nick said, "but I don't think those are the Beacons. Not unless they started an equal opportunity program."

"Shit," said Sloane.

"Man, what are they talking about?" said Till in wonderment.

"Gator hunting, I think. These old backwoods blacks, they go out late at night and attract gators with light, then bop 'em over the head with ax handles. Highly illegal, but they eat the meat and sell the skins and teeth. Poaching. It's poaching. You guys want to bust 'em for conspiracy to poach? It's three to five and it's federal."

"Shit," said Sloane again. "I know that guy said it was thirty miles out Parish Five-forty-seven, then left at the dirt road for thirteen miles."

"I think he was chain pulling," said Nick. "These old Louisiana cops, you know, they love their pranks."

"I'm going to report his ass," said Sloane hotly.

"No, don't do that. See, he's got you. You can't prove it was anything but real and if you make a fuss, you're the one that looks like the ungrateful ass. Listen, my first year in Gumboland, I spent half my nights on wild-goose chases. This is what passes for sport down here. Those guys are sitting in the back room at The Alligator Club right now, laughing themselves sick, I guarantee you. But you did your job, right? That's the main thing."

"Christ, Memphis, you're a walking testimonial to the human power to forgive."

"It's so much easier than being a hard guy. Especially in their town. Now I get along with them pretty well, because I paid my dues and never complained."

"Ah, let's get out of here," said Till.

"Just think, Till, how silly you'd feel if you'd been parked out here in a million-dollar Electrotek 5400. All dressed up and no place to go."

Both the Secret Service agents laughed, and then Till said, "No way I'm getting hold of an Electrotek unless I go to work for RamDyne, which I just might do."

Nick said, "RamDyne?"

"You never heard of RamDyne?"

"No."

"It's Fed heaven. You fuck up bad, or you get fucked bad, but you're good, you know, really good, maybe RamDyne gives you a call one night. Then you are on easy street. And you get to do all the stuff the CIA used to do. Interesting stuff."

"Ah," said Sloane, "it doesn't even exist. I hear guys talking about it now and then, but I don't know a single guy who's ever gotten that kind of nod."

"But it's nice to think of the money, isn't it?" said Till, dreamily.

Chapter TWELVE.

Bob came over the rise and looked down the wet tarmac to see the trailer a mile ahead, and the car parked next to it. He drew his parka tighter; the wind pushed into and through it. Next to him, Mike poised, taut, his sloppy jowls tightening, a curl of angry low sound slithering out of his throat.

"Easy, boy," said Bob, trying to rub some softness into the animal's tension. He stroked the hard neck and the velvety ears and after a second or so, Mike broke contact with the strangers at the trailer and cocked his head, looking at Bob, puzzlement showing in the deep lakes of his eyes.

"There, guy," Bob said in a low mutter, "it's all right. They're friends," though a sardonic tone crept into the last word.

He had wondered when they'd be in touch. It was a sleety day; the weather had rushed over the Ouachitas; low clouds rolled angrily by; pellets of ice fell diagonally, cutting the skin, collecting in puddles on the road, while the wind sliced through the trees.