Lost City Radio (31 page)

Rey died instantly.

They were all boys, and though the prisoner was a stranger to them, they each mourned him in their private way. The war was ending, and Rey's was one of the last bodies they would see. A battle awaited them at the camp, of course, but that would come tomorrow, and they would not fight it alone. They would come upon a tired band of IL fighters, among them a man named Alaf, who, like many others, would die before firing a shot. But that would be all noise and light, whereas Rey's was a smaller, more intimate death. One of them pulled the silver chain from around the dead man's neck. They checked his pockets, hoping to find money, but there was only a handwritten letter, of no use to anyone. They stared at Rey. From another raft on the river, a grinning soldier gave them a thumbs-up. One of them pulled off the dead man's blindfold and closed his eyelids; another took his shoes. For many minutes, no one spoke. They let the current carry them, and they watched Rey, as if expecting him to speak. Finally, it fell upon Junior, who was the oldest, a three-year
veteran, a boy of nineteen, to push the bound man's body off the raft and into the river. It made a small splash, and, for a quarter-mile, it floated alongside them, bobbing and sinking facedown in the river. Still, no one spoke. One of the younger soldiers, of his own initiative, used the oar to push Rey's body toward the shore. With this accomplished, they all felt better.

S
INCE
1999, when I began researching this novel, many people have shared their stories of the war years with me. There is no way to repay this generosity and trust.

I couldn't do anything without my family—Renato, Graciela, Patricia, Sylvia, Pat, Marcela, and Lucia—and my friends, scattered in two dozen countries, but always near to my heart.

Vinnie Wilhelm, Mark Lafferty, and Lila Byock provided invaluable feedback on early drafts of this novel, for which I am immensely grateful.