The biggest turned out to be a regulation B-4, canvas, folding suitcase, stenciled Colonel H. MacPherson, USAF AO 1954895. He was considering hiding the bag from Jenny when she slipped into the room, with a shake of her head, pointing upstairs, and grabbed the familiar grip with a sigh of joy. That exclamation of happiness turned into a sob of sadness when the manila label tag flipped over so she could read what Jed feared was a death notice. The bold, black printing stated, "Personal Effects, hold until notification of next of kin."

He let go of his hold on the suitcase to put both arms around Jenny.

"Don't believe it," Jed consoled. "It can't be true. Never. We will find him."

Jenny just cried, and cried. Not loud, but enough so that Jed almost missed the scrape of a swollen wood door catching against a stubborn frame, down the hall.

"Shhh. Please, Jenny," he whispered. "Hold on for just for a moment."

Because of the time it took to steal his way to take a peek into the hall, he had just a brief glimpse of a civilian dressed in slacks and white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Most surprising of all, this fellow was wearing a shoulder holster.

Jed assimilated these impressions before it struck him forcefully that the porch light just outside the building hadn't been necessary for this observation. Hearing a guard dog bark, he felt a shiver of fear. They didn't have time left to bail out the kayak and escape before daylight.

He conveyed this fact to Jenny when she was in control of herself once again. Sort of. She was all for marching out to locate the base commander to demand an account of the demise of Colonel MacPherson, but Jed's mention of the civilian, packing a handgun, was enough to convince them to wait for the darkness of night, again, to leave the way they had arrived.

It was a hard decision for Jenny to make. She took a long time unfolding, and refolding her father's class A uniform, socks, shorts. It was so painful watching her weep over Hap's campaign and merit award ribbons, that Jed climbed a packing crate, took his knife, and scraped away a slight opening in the painted-over storeroom window, to see what was happening outside.

"Jen. Here. Quick."

"What?"