The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Read Online Free PDF Page B

cancer got so bad that he couldn’t take care of himself, though. That he was sure of. He’d live life to the full until he couldn’t go on, and then he’d end it himself. He had no intention of wasting away in a hospital bed.
     
    Dick Marks slammed the door of the black Wrangler Jeep and heard the sound reverberate around the hill like half a dozen gunshots. There was no need to be quiet because Eric Horvitz would hear him coming through the forest anyway. Besides, it was better to give Horvitz advance warning of his approach. He wasn’t the sort of man to creep up on. Not if you wanted a friendly conversation with him.
    He slung his small nylon haversack over one shoulder, stepped away from the Jeep and began to climb, watching where he put his feet and taking care not to grab any branches before checking that they weren’t home to a snake or spider or anything else that might bite him. Marks was not comfortable in the great outdoors. Never had been, never would be. Still, he was being well paid for his trouble, and for the risk. Eric Horvitz was a man who had to be treated with kid gloves. He had already served two prison terms, one for assault and one for manslaughter, and if it wasn’t for his war record and the clutch of medals that he was entitled to wear he’d have still been doing time in some maximum security institution. That was why Horvitz had moved to the woods. He was safer there, less likely to fly off the handle and use the skills which the US Army had given him, skills which made him such a success during his three tours in Nam and which were such a liability in peacetime. It was only after six visits to the camp deep in the woods that Horvitz had come to accept Marks, not as a friend but at least as a non-threatening visitor.
    The first time Horvitz had refused to speak to Marks though he’d at least listened to his speech about the US-Indochina Reconciliation Project and how it had initiated a programme to send veterans with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder back to Vietnam. Horvitz hadn’t replied to any of the questions that Marks had asked and eventually he’d simply wandered off into the trees. On his second visit Horvitz had sat down while Marks had talked, and he’d offered him a joint of the sweetest dope he’d had in a long time. When Marks had asked where he got the dope, Horvitz had smiled and admitted to growing it himself. It was the first time he’d spoken to Marks.
    On subsequent visits Horvitz had gradually opened up to the point of spending several hours talking, reminiscing about his days in Vietnam and explaining how he managed to live all alone in the wilds. It was like winning the confidence of a wild animal, taking it step by step, making no sudden movements or pushing it too hard, talking softly and smiling a lot. Marks was the only outsider Horvitz had spoken to during the three years he had been living rough. There were other Vietnam veterans in the woods, but they rarely encroached into each other’s territory. They were there to be alone, not to form support groups. Almost all were like Horvitz, trained to be killers and now superfluous. They had given everything for their country and when they had needed something in return, their country had failed them. Horvitz and the rest needed to be debriefed, to be eased back into society, but instead they had been treated like lepers, unwanted reminders of the war that America lost. That was something that Marks had touched on in his later conversations: how Horvitz now felt about his country. In the abstract, Horvitz was as patriotic an American as you’d ever meet: he’d been prepared to die for his country during the war, and would still lay down his life for the flag. It was his feelings for the people of America that had changed. Now he felt nothing but resentment, bordering on hostility, for those who had treated him so badly on his return. They’d spat at him and called him Baby Killer. Young girls had refused to