One September Morning (22 page)

Sterling, Virginia
Abby

N
oah’s e-mail stops Abby in her tracks.

She is killing time at her parents’ house, unable to concentrate enough to get lost in a book but sick of the prattle on television. She logs on to the computer in the guest room and sees the e-mail from her brother-in-law.

His message is brief: “I thought you should see these.”

When she opens the attachment and finds John’s letters—electronic journal entries—a small sigh escapes her throat. His voice comes through so clearly in his writing that it hurts her to read on.

And yet, she can’t resist at least skimming his accounts of conversations with the locals, exotic birds and cloth in markets, observations of architecture and Islamic customs, visits to the local orphanage, where he knew the workers and many of the children. When John wrote about Iraqi people he had met, he mentioned many of them by name, revealing their personalities and some of the differences in culture he had observed. There were comedic accounts of the guys in his platoon with loving descriptions of some of the “kids” he served with.

“Doc is a natural leader, and I suppose you could do worse than Chenowith, although some of the guys have taken to calling him ‘Cadet’ behind his back because he never lets you forget the fact that he attended West Point. Personally, I like to seek out the underdogs, the quiet ones. Emjay Brown, son of a chicken farmer from the Maryland shore, is good people. Whenever we go out on missions, I try to get hooked up with him. And I’m trying to look out for the new kid, Spinelli, who appears to have bitten off more than he can chew by enlisting. Sometimes at night I hear him crying in his bunk, and it breaks my heart. I wish I had the power to send the kid back home.”

John loved people. How did she forget that? He would have been thrilled by the thousand-plus people who attended his funeral, as long as they had a good time.

But as she reads on, his journals voice concerns about U.S. involvement in Iraq. “Does U.S. intervention contribute to the greater good of this country?” he wrote. “The U.S. likes to call these eruptions of violence insurgencies, but really we are in the midst of an age-old civil war.”

These concerns had begun to come through in his e-mails, though Abby sensed that sometimes he censored himself due to the lack of security over the Internet. It was all disturbing and somehow reassuring. John’s letters reminded her so much of the man he was: steadfast, conscientious, committed to ending the hatred that sparked 9/11.

She scrolls ahead, finding an entry John wrote a week before he was shot.

John never revealed this level of disenfranchisement to her. She pictures him on patrol in Fallujah, rife with alienation and guilt and a feeling of responsibility for his fellow soldiers who abused their power.

And who is this soldier with notches on his belt? It’s hard to believe this behavior is tolerated in this day and age. It’s unsettling to think of John in his last days, in the company of men lacking in moral fiber and integrity. John did not suffer fools gladly, and she suspects he gave these men hell, though that’s little consolation.

She closes the file, then notices something else in the attachment—a file called: JUST IN CASE. When she clicks it open, the headline at the top steals the breath from her body:

Oh, God.

For the first time since John’s death eeriness creeps over her, and goose bumps form on her upper arms. Why did John write this? Did he have a feeling of foreboding, some kind of warning that someone in his platoon was about to ambush him? In his journals, he wrote that he wasn’t popular with the guys, but a difference of opinion was hardly enough motivation to kill someone.

Her hand hovers over the mouse, suspended in the knowledge that once she scrolls down and reads on, it will be the final gesture, confirmation that he is gone.

By the time Abby finishes reading, the tears in her eyes blur the words, but she dashes them away, wanting this last connection to her husband.

This last good-bye.

Canadian Border
Noah

N
orth.

Images of snow-covered hills and tall evergreens crowd Noah’s mind. He’s been hearing the “Snow” song from the movie
White Christmas
play in his head ever since the train passed into the state of Maine. That corny movie is one of his mother’s favorites, with all the troops coming up to the inn to support the general in the end.

Good God, it’s only September, but the temperature does seem to be dropping with the sun as the train travels north, shooting through banks of opaque mist and towns where street lights flash from red to green, and warm, yellow-lit windows welcome people home to dinner. These small-town streets, these modest houses—this is the America John wanted to protect when he took that wrong turn into the army. Good people trying to do the right thing without fear of terrorism. It all started with the best of intentions.

Noah wants to think that he’s doing the right thing now, that his escape to Canada is not an act of cowardice, as his father will surely see it, but an act of courage, a move toward saving other people’s lives, if not just his own.

He wants to think that, for him, north is the answer.

Right now, it’s his only choice.

When he booked his ticket, the Amtrak agent warned that there might be delays at the border crossing. Since 9/11 both the U.S. and Canada had stepped up customs and immigration procedures. But when the train stops at the border, the crossing seems uneventful. Seated in the two rows of seats that face each other at the end of the car, Noah is one of the first to go. He feels a slight buzz of nerves as he hands his driver’s license and passport to the Immigration officer, but he reminds himself that he’s not doing anything illegal. Not yet, at least. He’s not AWOL until his leave officially ends.

“Enjoy your stay.” The agent hands back Noah’s passport and license, then moves down the aisle to the next passenger.

Noah tucks the ID away, anxious for the train to keep moving north. He read somewhere that of all people surveyed, the ones who lived in colder climates reported a higher level of happiness.

After the train departs the border stop, Noah stands, stretches, and takes the down jacket from his duffle bag. Balled up and wedged against the cold window, it makes a great pillow. He stretches out his leg, glad for the half-empty train, since he didn’t think it was wise to blow his cash on a sleeper car.

His head sinks into the plush pile of the jacket. He closes his eyes and falls into the most relaxing state he’s known in months. In a light sleep, he’s still conscious of the rocking train, the whoosh of covered tunnels.

Soon the rhythmic sound of the train is the beat of a bass drum from the school band on the football field. The lights bounce off helmets and illuminate the players’ white jerseys as he waves them down field, down, way down.

His right hand grips the ball as he dances right, left, trying to steer clear of the defensive tackles. His arm sings, loose and strong, ready to shoot the ball down the field. But where the hell is his receiver?

John! John? Where are you?

He squints against the lights, and number 19 darts out from behind a dark jersey and runs backward into the end zone. John…he’s open.

Noah snaps the ball, hard, and it launches through the air in a clean, wide arc. A rocket to the end zone, it smacks into John’s chest. John palms the ball in the air—a touchdown!

A moment so sweet, Noah smiles in his sleep.

But someone across the aisle is kicking him, nudging him from the dream.

He pulls himself from sleep to see his brother sitting across from him, kicking him the way he used to under the dining room table. John’s white number 19 jersey glows, just as it did in the dream.

“Nice move, bro,” John said, nodding in approval. “Nice move.”

Noah smiles, and when he takes a breath, a weight has lifted from his chest. He closes his eyes and falls back to sleep dreaming of tall pines on snow-covered hills.

Fort Lewis Flint

F
lint is glad to see Abby eating, pleased that she is serious about holding the army accountable, and, on top of all that, he’s relieved to have a chance to see Abby at all. He had worried that once they returned to the Seattle area they would fall back into their previous roles, distant and disconnected. So when Abby called him to ask for help investigating John’s death, he got behind the wheel of his Prius for the first time in months and pulled into the extended parking lot that is I-5.

He scoops in a mouthful of rice, having passed on the spicy stuff. Since his return to the States he’s suffered major heartburn, probably from all the excess after months of eating granola bars and jerky. His transition back to the land of the all-night burrito stand and the drive-through window is taking a bit longer than he expected. Most nights he still wakes up at least once, panicked over the ominous silence.

“Isn’t it ironic that the guys you serve with, your best friends and blood brothers, can’t attend your funeral? I mean, here this poor solider is killed—Hilliard?”

He nods. “Antoine Hilliard.”

“Killed by a suicide bomber,” Abby says as she closes a white paper container of Szechuan spicy scallops. “That had to be awful, for all of them.”

“It’s one of the exigencies of military service, I guess.”

“But I feel sorry for them,” Abby says. “They don’t get a chance to grieve or mourn. No time to celebrate a person’s life. Where’s the closure?”

“They have a memorial service, sometimes it’s combined with the Hero Flights, but there’s no time spared for bereavement.” He puts the rice aside, wondering if Abby has given herself a chance to grieve. She looks great, but you never know what’s churning inside a person.

“It’s good that they make an effort,” she says, “but a ten-minute service is hardly enough to destress.”

Flint swipes a pen from Abby’s kitchen counter. “Let’s make a list of avenues for you to pursue, since I don’t think your contacts in the army are going to grant you an impartial investigation unless you put some pressure on them. First…” He clicks the pen and writes
Emjay Brown
.

“You’ll want to connect with the guys in John’s platoon. When their deployment ends, you’ve got to meet them. Especially the guy who was right beside him when the bullets hit, Emjay Brown. That guy knows something.”

“Something he’s holding back?” Abby asks.

“It might even be something in his subconscious right now, but troubling memories like that have a bad habit of sneaking to the surface.”

“And psychology is supposed to be my specialty.”

“Just be sure you find a way to get with these guys when they return…when?”

“December.”

“There’s usually some reception on base. Make sure you go, and see what you can find out from his fellow soldiers. I can probably help you when you get to that point.”

“I think I can handle it,” she says. “This degree is giving me a lot of practice with my interview skills.”

“Ah, yes, the shrink thing. How’s that coming along?”

“I won’t be a full-fledged head shrinker, just a licensed counselor. If I make up the assignments I missed, I’ll finish my classwork this semester and begin full-time clinicals in January.”

He whistles. “Close enough. If you can say ADHD to parents with second-grade boys, you’ll pay for your leather sofa in no time.”

“I won’t be able to prescribe drugs,” she says. “And to be honest, it’s been a helpful distraction. I could have taken the rest of the semester off, but then I would have gone crazy focusing only on this.” She points to the notepad.

“And nobody wants a crazy therapist, right?” He’s grateful for the rapport they still have; the teasing banter is safe and somehow reassuring.

Abby points her chopsticks at him. “Okay, enough picking on me. I need a game plan that extends beyond the homecoming of Bravo Company.” She slides a yellow-ruled notepad over and flips through the top pages. “This is a list of my phone contacts for the U.S. Army, a big dead end. My inquiries sort of lead back to where I began, at Sergeant Palumbo, the casualty assistance officer. All they can tell me is that John’s personal belongings will be shipped back to me—nobody knows when. And I’ll be getting a letter from John’s commander, Colonel Billy Waters, but that sounds like it will be more of a protocol condolence thing than an explanation of what happened.”

He nods. “I’ve seen a few letters to widows. They’re personal, sometimes poignant, but it’s a formality.”

“If I hadn’t gone to Dover and, by some magic, extracted a copy of John’s file, I wouldn’t even know there were two bullet wounds.” She puts down her chopsticks and presses a napkin to her mouth. “It’s not easy being Nancy Drew in the U.S. Army.”

“Tell me about it. So the army isn’t forthcoming. What exactly do we know?”

“That he was hit by two bullets. Two rounds from an M-16 were recovered.”

“And that’s the type of gun carried by his platoon,” Flint says.

She nods. “And there’s the soldier you talked with—Emjay Brown. How reliable a source is he?”

“The guy was pretty broken up, a suicide risk. But that doesn’t make him an unreliable source.”

“So…” Abby folds her hands on the table, reluctant to go on. “So you think it was friendly fire.”

“Did they find a sniper in the warehouse? An Iraqi insurgent?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Abby closes her eyes. “No, they did not.”

“So I’d say he was shot by one of our guys. Strictly speculation, of course, but if I were writing the story, I would certainly hint at that possibility.”

“How could the army do that to him?” she asks, her voice quavering. “How could they let that happen?”

Flint sucks in a breath, feeling at a loss. He’d like to hug Abby and tell her that it’s all going to be okay and that John probably had no idea what hit him, but none of that would be true.

She plucks a napkin from the holder on the table and presses it to each eye. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t come here to see me blubber.”

“It’s okay to cry, Abby.”
Though it kills me to watch.

He turns away to give her space, and picks up her list of army personnel. Some of the names have notes and slogans beside them, like “Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil” by Sgt. Palumbo’s name, and “You Can’t Handle the Truth” penciled in beside the name of a colonel at the Pentagon. One thing is for sure, Abby is conducting a very cute investigation.

“I have some of my own contacts in the army,” he says. “If you want, I’ll see what I can find out from them. But rumor has it that this one’s being played very close to the vest. The army never released a combat incident report. That tells me that something is fishy.”

Abby is nodding vigorously. “Ask away. I am so sick of cold-calling these people, explaining my sad story, and getting past all their condolences to the heart of the matter. I probably sound ruthless on the phone, but no one is giving me the answers I need.”

“I can do ruthless,” he says. “Let me make some calls. In the meantime, there’s one other avenue you might want to consider.”

The way her dark hair tumbles over one shoulder when she tilts her head, those green eyes so wide and inquisitive…he has to look away.

“What’s that?”

He clears his voice.
Focus, you idiot.
“You could play the celebrity card. It seems to me a lot of reporters would jump at this story—” His fingers form quotation marks. “‘Hero struck down in his prime, but what’s the real story, and why isn’t the Pentagon telling?’”

Her frown is the same, that funny way her mouth scrunches over to one side. “I could do it,” she says, “but Sharice and Jim would freak. As it is, they’re not happy that I’m pursuing this at all, even in my quiet way.”

“Just keep it in mind as an option.” He stacks some empty paper containers and brings their glasses to the sink. When he and Abby shared a suite in college, Flint was the Felix Unger of the group, clearing away drinking glasses before people were finished, making visitors slip off their shoes at the door. He’d worked through some of his fanatical neatness; the remainder of it had been stripped from him when he became an embed in Iraq. You don’t wear the same armored vest for three straight months without learning to live with your own stink.

When he turned back, she was still sitting, gripping the kitchen table pensively. Her freckles stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin.

“What?” he asks, leaning back against the kitchen sink. “What’s wrong…other than the obvious, that you just lost your husband and all that.”

She sucks in a breath. “There’s something I want to show you, but first…I need you to promise me that all this will stay between you and me.”

“As in, don’t tell Mrs. Niedermeyer down the block?”

“As in, this can never be published. This has got to be more than off the record. It’s so secret, I was even afraid to e-mail it to you and have it out there on the Internet.”

“Abby, come on! Have I ever crossed the line, or even come close to it with personal stuff involving you?”

“No, but…this is so sensitive, and John’s not here to defend himself anymore. It’s up to me to do it for him.”

“I would never take advantage that way. Never.” He pushes away from the sink and throws his arms into the air. “Is that what you think?”

This is the part where the irate reporter is supposed to rail over the indignity of having his integrity questioned, storm out the door, and never return. And the Flint of a few years ago would have done just that. Hell, a few months ago he would have walked.

But Abby is his friend. She needs help navigating the waters that he’s been sailing for years. Of course, there is another reason to stay, but that is something Flint can’t name. Best not to go there right now.

“Don’t be offended.” She picks up a manila folder from beside her computer and hands it over. “Noah e-mailed them to me. Apparently, John was keeping an electronic journal, besides the written ones. I printed out a copy of everything for you. Just take these home and read them over when you get a chance. Then you can tell me whether something was going on in John’s platoon, or if I’m just being paranoid.”

He pulls the envelope open, but she whips it out of his hands.

“What are you doing?” she asks sternly. “You can’t read them here.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s…it’s too personal. I’d have to go in the closet and shrivel up.”

“Okay, then.” He tucks it under his arm and grabs his jacket from the chair by the door. “Lest you shrivel…I’ll take these to go.”

Rain. Flint never thought he would miss Seattle’s weather, but in the desert of Iraq, when he felt his body broiling in the 130-degree sun, he’d longed for the cool, wet drops on his face.

He leans on the rail of the balcony facing Lake Union, where one of the last prop planes of the day is landing on the water. The one-bedroom condo behind him was his trophy when he purchased it two years ago, but, like anything material, its importance has diminished as other issues—like staying alive in the desert—swelled.

He’d passed that hurdle and survived, though it was still hard to sleep here, where the occasional rumble of a passing bus or whir of a landing seaplane could jar him awake in alarm. Then there’d been the task of ending his relationship with Delilah, which had loomed large for so long that when they actually met and decided to part, the finale was anticlimactic.

And now…Abby.

His original plan was to read through the files tonight and call Abby in the morning, so that she wouldn’t smell his overeagerness and construe it as interest. Which it was. His lack of focus on anything else was proof of his renewed attraction to Abby, but he was trying to keep it all in the friendly category right now. Having written pieces about obsessive stalkers, he had learned what a complete put-off the obsessive type could be.

But now that he’s read John’s journals, he can’t put off calling.

Flint steps in out of the rain, peels off his damp socks, and wipes his face on the sleeve of his shirt. The way he reads the whole situation, Abby isn’t paranoid. John’s platoon had been a volatile mix of borderline sociopathic cowboys and misguided patriots. He flips through his notes to locate the names of the men in John’s platoon. He’d seen the dynamic before. Cowboys like Lassiter. The unwitting followers like Gunnar McGee. Cocky know-it-alls like Doc, and narcissists like Hilliard. What a crew.

There was dissension among the guys, heated arguments, jealousy. In that milieu, what was the likelihood of one of these guys turning on John?

Very likely.

And Stanton saw it coming. He sensed trouble brewing.

Did they kill him because of his opinions? Because he no longer believed in the war? Flint itches to get at the moral center of this story.

Right now they have only a handful of pieces of the puzzle. A grainy outline of the true picture, but Flint senses a substantial story here, a tale that needs to be revealed.