Puller stared down at the phone.

 

Selecting memories? What the hell was that about? * * * An hour later Stan

Demirjian called. And three hours after that Puller was walking down the hall in

the facility where Lynda Demirjian had come to die. A nurse escorted him.

 

Stan Demirjian had elected not to attend this meeting. Puller could not blame

him. The old sergeant probably would have elected to try to retake Hamburger

Hill over hearing his wife tell Puller his father was a murderer.

 

The nurse opened the door and ushered Puller in before leaving.

 

Puller looked over at the bed. There was an IV stand and a monitoring unit and

lines running from them to the shrunken form lying in the bed. The passage of

three decades plus the terminal cancer had taken their toll on the woman.

 

Puller looked around the small room. It mirrored the one his father was

currently occupying. He wondered what was worse: knowing that you were dying, or

being oblivious to it?

 

He pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. “Mrs. Demirjian?” The woman

moved a bit, her head turned toward him, and her eyes opened. “Who are you?” she

said in a croaky voice. “John Puller, Junior.” Her eyes opened wide for a moment

and then returned to slits, as though the lights overhead were too painful to

fully engage. “Last time I saw you, you were just a little boy.” “Yes ma’am.”