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chopper riddled with AK-47 fire, he found himself weeping. Not tears of joy at leaving the insanity of war behind after four long years, but rather tears of sorrow because the war was over, at least for him. It was that comment, more than anything else, that made me hang up on every recruiter who called, before they could even start their recruiting pitch.
    After Vietnam, Jamie just sort of wandered off. He spent ten years or so working a variety of odd jobs from one end of the country to the other. I met him for the first time when I was seven years old, and by then, Jamie had settled down in Maine, working in a small sporting goods store up near Moosehead Lake. Every few years he would come down out of the wild and visit for one random holiday weekend or another, but it was never consistent and it always felt strange.
    When I got older, I could begin to perceive that my father and mother didn't really want Jamie around, especially around and talking to me, and I once caught a fragment of whispered conversation between my parents the evening before Jamie arrived, something about dad not wanting his brother planting any ideas in my head about the glory of going off to war. My mother had always thought that I should make my own decisions, for good or ill, but on this point my father was adamant. He had seen what the war had done to his brother, how it had pulled him close and unlocked something in him that could never be put away again.
    I never really knew what my dad was talking about, but I did know that sometimes, every once in awhile, I would catch my uncle looking off into space, staring at nothing, with a secret smile on his face and the hint of tears in his eyes. I just knew he was thinking of the jungle again, not with sadness, but with a fond affection. It scared me like nothing had ever scared me before, because when he looked that way, I could see Death in my uncle's eyes, death dealt to more men than he could even count.
    All of that went through my mind as I stood up from my chair and gave Jamie a warm hug. Despite the strained relationship he had with my mother and father, I had always thought well of my uncle. He might come across as damaged goods, but he was always friendly and warm with me, always speaking to me as an equal even when I was a child, never talking down, never coming across as condescending or babying in his manner or speech.
    "How was your flight?" I asked.
    He shrugged. "As good as could be expected. Landed in one piece and didn't blow up, didn't get shot at either."
    I managed an awkward smile. “I'm glad you made the trip. The last couple of weeks have been rather peaceful. Healing, even. Although Beth went home, I think this was the sort of vacation my parents wanted me to enjoy."
    Jamie nodded. "It might not have been an old fashioned Irish wake, but I think you did your family proud."
    I could tell neither of us was willing to discuss the tragedy further at that moment, so we sat down to lunch. I gestured to the wine carafe, and Jamie poured himself a small glass. We tucked into the mussels with gusto; Jamie had landed in Paris hours ago, took the first train to Calais, and went to drop his luggage off at the hotel before taxiing over to meet me for lunch, so he was clearly famished. The waitress, a petite middle-aged woman who eyed my uncle very favorably, was back and forth to our table several times bringing more bread, butter, and mussels. We said little over lunch, mostly small talk about the food and the wine; a dry white that was paired well with our meal, no less that I would have expected.
    By the time we had given up on stuffing ourselves and ordered cafe au lait to finish off the meal, Jamie turned back to the grim business we both knew had to be discussed.
    "Before you left for spring break, did your father talk about the case he was working on in Boston?"
    "All I knew was that it was a high profile murder. A college girl raped and strangled in a hotel room downtown. The guy