Michael Malone - Weebly

that had cost Henry time. The man with whom he had
left his truck at the station was out somewhere driving in
it. Victor Grabaski, the only other person in town who
might have taken her away, was not in his trailer, nor
was Victor's cousin, Karl. Henry felt sunburned, grimy,
hungry, and exhausted by frustration and alarm.
Anything could have happened to his wife. She could
be dead, or hurt, or lost and unable to explain herself.
Any bastard could have told her anything. How could
she tell the difference between what made sense in
America and what didn't? It was possible that he had
lost her for good, that the government had returned her
to Southeast Asia as suddenly and as haphazardly as it
had lifted her out of the panicked streets of Saigon and
brought her, by chance, here to him. Anything could
have happened to her because he hadn't been there to
stop it.
Because he had been tossed in the can by that
bastard Haig, whom he'd like to kill with his bare hands.
Maynard Henry was a man of violent instincts
whose outbursts, throughout his thirty-two years, had
been matters for long, concerned discussion among first