With each new file that I opened, my posture got further away from the army’s ideal, until by the end, I’d slumped to the floor to have a good mope.
What now?
Did I search every one of the wooden cubbies against the wall, stuffed with letters and documents? Flip through each book on the shelf for photos pressed in an obscure chapter on shrubbery ecology?
Or maybe Morrissey had found what he wanted and burned the evidence. That would be the smart thing to do, but criminals in books never thought of it, always keeping the most crucial documents out of pride or some silly motivation.
“I told you, this isn’t one of your detective stories, Dorie.” That’s what Gordon would say if I came out empty-handed, that knowing look in his eyes.
But what if it is? the stubborn part of me insisted. Where would he keep the evidence?
I traced my flashlight over the room again . . . and stopped on a glint of glass, hung on the back wall, where visitors entering the office and facing the desk wouldn’t see it. But where Morrissey, seated in his desk chair, easily could.
A Gold Star Service Flag, boxed in with a wooden frame like a piece of art. The one to commemorate Wille’s death.
So, they had one after all. And it was hanging just a few degrees crooked.
There was no suspense as I took the frame off the wall and turned it over. I found exactly what I was expecting: a file folder taped to the back of the frame.
Slowly, I tugged at the tape—it had lost some of its stick already and had clearly been moved before—and pulled the folder free, opening it to reveal the contents. Be careful. Keep them in order.
On the top, a stack of pictures, blurry, but some close-up, others far away. A letter from the Office of Censorship on eagle-embossed stationery. A newspaper article. Some handwritten notes.
Secret weapon. Incendiary. Other fires in the region. Classified.
I tried to scan for key words, knowing it wasn’t safe to read it all right here, with the clock ticking toward the half-hour mark.
Gordon. Gordon needs to see this.
I stood, ready to call him inside. But it would take time to read all of the documents, more than we had without being caught at the rising bell.
We’d have to chance it, hope that Morrissey wouldn’t look behind the frame before I could sneak back in and replace the documents.
Before I could reconsider, I hung the flag back up, tilted to just the right angle, locked the office door, and ran outside, where Gordon was kneeling on the cold, hard boards of the porch, staring dutifully out toward the silent camp. “Gordon!”
He started, clutching his chest like he was eighty years old and fit to keel over from a heart attack. Then he must have noticed my expression, because he scrambled to his feet. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, then shook my head. Was I all right? Not yet. My voice sounded strained, distant to my own ears. “I know why Jack didn’t call in the fire.”
“Why?”
“Because he started it.”
Gordon hunched over the file folder, squinting to read in the pale light of dawn. Instead of starting with the letters like I had, he gathered the half dozen photographs from Charlie’s camera, turning them over one by one. I leaned against the railing, aiming the flashlight for him.
Two showed bits of metal debris, another a close-up of a scrap of material with the same Japanese symbol Gordon had found in Morrissey’s pocket, then a wide shot to show the material to scale. Even mangled and burned, it was easy to tell whatever it had been was massive, far larger than an average parachute.
And written on the back of the last photograph—one of a twisted-looking wheel studded with what looked like charges, fragments of charred rope dangling to the side—Remains of the bomb Armitage triggered.
“A bomb,” I said, my throat tight. “A Japanese bomb.”
Japan was full of surprises. First Pearl Harbor, now this. What “this” was and how it had gotten here, I couldn’t say exactly, but Morrissey clearly knew.
“So Sarah Ruth was telling the truth,” Gordon said, releasing a slow breath. “Jack reported this . . . thing the night before the fire. Morrissey didn’t know what it was and told him not to go near it. But the next morning, he . . .”
“He went anyway,” I finished when I heard the wavering in Gordon’s voice. “And when he got close enough to touch it . . . it exploded.”
“And lit the forest on fire.” His voice was a whisper now, like it should be when speaking of the dead.
I pictured shrapnel, fire blooming out in a circle around Jack’s limp body, burning until the smoke got high enough to alert the other rangers. All because he had to examine the strange object he spotted in the woods.
“Why couldn’t you leave it alone, Jack?”
It was only when Gordon asked gently, “Would you have?” that I realized I’d said it out loud.
“No.” We had that in common, my brother and I: our curiosity. Only mine hadn’t been fatal—yet.
“But why all the secrecy?” I asked as if the papers and photographs might speak up and answer. “If Morrissey simply wanted to understand what happened, why wouldn’t anyone answer his questions? And if the army—”
“Dorie!”
That one word, hissed from his mouth, shot me through with alarm, and I guessed what I’d see when I turned around: the dim lamppost illuminating a tall figure hunched against the wind as he strode across the path.
Morrissey. Early.
Hadn’t Sarah Ruth said he’d been working strange hours lately?
And we only had a few moments before he spotted us.
“Hide the file,” I said, fumbling with the keys. I could hear papers rustle, and when I turned around again, the ranger station door securely locked, Gordon was latching my haversack.
“Act like you belong.” I held my flashlight loosely and smoothed down my hair. “And for pity’s sake, let me handle this.”
I probably wouldn’t have needed to tag on that last part. Gordon looked about ready to die on the doormat, clutching the haversack like it was stuffed with counterfeit money.
To avoid suspicion, be proactive. That was key, and the reason I sang out, “Good morning, Mr. Morrissey!”
He jerked his head up sharply, as if wondering if he should run for a rifle to chase the riffraff from his porch. As he came closer, I took the measure of him. If Gordon had looked like the “before” part of a shaving advertisement, Earl Morrissey was the red-eyed mongrel from a pamphlet on the dangers of drink. Though there was no smell of alcohol on him, exhaustion caused his steps to weave, and a patchy beard had sprouted on his chin.
How long had it been since he’d gotten a full night of sleep?
“What are you two doing here so early?” he asked gruffly. “Rising bell’s not even rung.”
Gordon sputtered, and I shifted over to make sure his guilty face was blocked. “In Mr. Hooper’s defense, he did try to stop me. Said you’d never agree to it, but I was determined to march over here and attempt to persuade you at the first opportunity.”
He took my bait, asking the question that I’d left dangling. “Agree to what?”
“Why, to a plane ride, of course.” I might as well have clocked him with a cast-iron pan, the way he stared dumbly at me. “Now, before you say a word, you have to know that Amelia Earhart was my hero growing up.”
To give Gordon time to recover and stop blushing, I launched into the full saga, mostly true, of my childhood obsession. I’d just started on my favorite theory about Earhart’s mysterious disappearance when he cut me off.
“Miss Hightower, unless there’s a fire—and I want you to pray that there is not—we’re not landing a plane at our airstrip. Even if we did, you wouldn’t be on it.”
“Why on earth not?” I raised my foot to stomp it for emphasis, then realized I was still wearing my slippers. Please don’t look down.
“Fuel’s at a premium right now, and we can’t spare it for joyrides.” He w
aved at me impatiently, and I stepped aside, letting him unlock the ranger station door. “Or don’t you know there’s a war on?”
He was mad now; that was good. Angry people were more likely to forget suspicions.
“Well, Mr. Hooper, you were right.” I tried on a tragic face. “Guess I’ll have to set my lifelong dream aside.”
“I’m sure you can figure out a new dream,” Gordon said sweetly, which should have annoyed me more, but I was focused on the fact that he didn’t look like a bank robber caught in a searchlight anymore.
Morrissey clutched the door handle, drawing out every word. “You sure that’s all?”
Time for another appearance of the Armitage smile. “Yes, sir. I was too excited to wait till breakfast to ask. Just ask Mr. Hooper here.”
It was a mistake. I knew it as soon as Morrissey’s eagle eyes turned back on Gordon. “Is that true, Hooper?”
And after a half second pause, he said, “Yes. It is.”
I let the tension in my shoulders relax. Thank goodness.
“Huh.” Morrissey rocked back a bit, stroking the dark whiskers on his chin, and I didn’t like his expression one bit. “Listen, Hooper. About Sarah Ruth . . . she doesn’t much care for the fire lookout.”
All of a sudden, Gordon was back to squirming like someone had emptied an ant farm down his collar. “I . . . ah . . . had heard her say that once, sir.”
I groaned inside. Pretty ranger’s daughters and ethical dilemmas— Gordon Hooper’s two weaknesses.
“I’d like you to go on up there and relieve her a day early. It’s about time one of you CPS fellows took a turn.”
What?
Gordon wasn’t meeting my eyes, which was a shame, because I was throwing daggers at him. Say no. Make up some excuse. For once in your life, just—
“I’d rather you assigned someone else, if it’s no trouble.”
I almost groaned out loud. He hadn’t said yes outright, but he might as well have.
Morrissey nodded emphatically. “I’ve already made up my mind. You’re on fire watch. In fact, I’ll have Jimmy hike up there with you after calisthenics. Deliver some supplies.”
“But, Mr. Morrissey, I heard on the radio that there’s snow on the way soon. A fire couldn’t possibly—”
“If I’ve learned anything out here, it’s that a man can never be too cautious.” You could almost taste the irony in his words. “I insist.”
I could see Gordon’s breath coming faster in the cold air. He was panicking. He had to be panicking—I was panicking. Morrissey must know what we’d seen. What we’d done. Soon, he’d demand to search my rucksack and—
No. He’s just suspicious of us, that’s all, like he was with Shorty. Who better to get out of the way for a week than Jack’s best friend, especially one caught snooping outside his office?
Besides, I hadn’t gotten a good look at those papers, but unless we were far off in our guess, Earl Morrissey was no spy. Until we found out more, he might be an ally, an accomplice, or an enemy.
Gordon bowed his head in surrender. “Yes, sir. I’ll gather my things.”
Morrissey grunted his approval. “And as for you, young lady”—he turned to me—“I think you’ve gotten enough information for that report of yours by now.”
Now it was my turn to search for the right words. “Oh, I’d have to talk to my superiors about that, sir.”
“Maybe I will instead.” Before I could tell him that wasn’t really necessary, he turned and plodded inside, slamming the door in my face.
That’s it. We’re finished. If he called Fort Lawton, insisted on talking to my superior, then they’d know I wasn’t in Pennsylvania comforting my grieving family after all. And everything would fall apart.
“Some accomplice you are, Gordon.” I kept my voice low but without skimping on annoyance, tugging him off the steps and down the path. “Couldn’t you have said you couldn’t go to the tower because you sprained your ankle or something?”
“And stoop to your level? Never.” He might as well have shouted it, the words sounded so loud in the early morning emptiness.
“Shh!” A glance in all directions showed no sign of any other shadows moving in the dark, so I reached for the rucksack. “Quick, give me those papers. I’ll keep them safe while you’re at the lookout. We’ll find some way to—”
He yanked the haversack away, the canvas brushing my fingers, and hurried ahead of me, back toward the bunkhouse. “No.”
“What, don’t you trust me?” I joked.
But his face was stone-set serious. “How can I? All you ever do is lie. And now you’re bringing me into it.”
Guilt stabbed at me. It had been an instinct, that was all, but even though that was the one thing I’d promised Gordon he wouldn’t have to do, I’d still asked him to lie for me. “I . . . I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of any other way to—”
“No more, Dorie. No more lies. What would it feel like, do you think, to tell the truth for once in your life?”
How was I supposed to answer that? It had all been for Jack, to find out how he died.
But now we knew, and it didn’t feel like the victory I had hoped for.
“I want this to be over.” He yanked open the rucksack, but instead of taking out the papers, he tossed my shoes on the ground at my feet. “Once I look these over and we know what happened, I want you to go home. Tell your parents the truth. Cry a little. And let me get my life back.”
He wanted his life back? “So, that’s what this is to you?” I snatched up my shoes by the laces. “Just an inconvenience? Now that we know how Jack died, you want to forget about him and move on?”
What about the truth? What about justice?
This time, though, he didn’t react with anger. “Dorie. Go home.” His voice was absent of emotion.
And he walked away. Just like he had all those years ago, walking away with his high-horse convictions, looking down on everyone else. On me.
“He was going to join the army.” The words came out before I realized I’d decided to say them.
Gordon stopped, then turned, his face shadowed. “Who?”
“Jack.”
If I’d executed a judo kick directly to his middle, I don’t think he could have looked so surprised. “I don’t understand.”
“Ask Thomas if you don’t believe me. Or take a look at this.” I drew the recruitment brochure out of my coat pocket and thrust it at him. His hands closed over it without his looking down to read the bold military headline.
“There must be a mistake.”
“There isn’t.” Now that I’d started, I couldn’t stop, the words tumbling out like a rockslide. “While you’re up in the lookout, see what he wrote in the observation log. Jack may have died, but at least he died wanting to do what was right.”
I’d done it. Gordon wanted the truth, and I’d given it to him. All of it.
CHAPTER 27
Gordon Hooper
January 25, 1945
My body moved mechanically through the usual pattern of laps, stretches, and arm exercises at morning calisthenics, my mind a thousand miles away. Or maybe just a few weeks away.
Jack had been planning to join the army.
The moment Dorie said it, even before she showed me the brochure, I knew it was true—not one of her screwball conjectures or an attempt to make me angry.
I’d searched through the brochure, trying to understand what had made Jack question his convictions. It was clearly from early in the war, tattered and full of outdated information. On the back, under a plea for able-bodied men to register at their local recruitment station, someone had written in neat cursive, Ecclesiastes 3:1–8. Not Jack’s handwriting, but that didn’t make me question that the brochure was his. It explained all of the doubts and heavy sighs, the half-finished meals and philosophical wonderings toward the end.
I threw myself into another round of push-ups as Richardson paced in front of us, grunting approval or disapproval in turn
.
Why didn’t Jack tell me?
He’d clearly been thinking about this for a long time. And I hadn’t noticed, hadn’t been there for him.
If I had, would he have volunteered for the lookout tower? Maybe he never would have seen the strange object that dropped the bomb into the woods, never would have moved toward it, determined to find out what had threatened his forest and his friends.
A shrill whistle burst into my thoughts. “Hooper!”
Morrissey jogged over to me, and I collapsed on the ground, breathing hard.
Had he discovered the file’s contents were missing? Was he going to confront me, demand to have the documents back before I’d even gotten a chance to study them?
“Think you missed the bell for breakfast.”
Sure enough, when I hauled myself to my knees, I saw the other fellows jogging down to the cookhouse. No wonder my arms felt like they’d been put through the laundry room’s wringer washer. “Sorry, sir.”
“Here,” he said, tossing an envelope my way. “This came in for you.”
I glanced at the outside. From Mother. The flap, usually sealed with careful precision, had a strip of tape slapped over it. “Did you . . . open this?”
His mouth formed a stiff line. “The army censors mail. Could’ve been that.”
“Not ours.” They never had in the past, not once, knowing that we were far away from any military secrets. Or so they’d thought.
“Times change, Hooper.” He jogged away, knowing I wouldn’t challenge him, that I’d meekly eat breakfast, then go back to the bunkhouse and pack like he’d ordered me to.
Instead, I tucked the letter in my pocket and rose on my burning muscles, running after him. “Wait, Mr. Morrissey.”
By the time he turned, I knew what I was going to say. The benefit of being desperate, I suppose. I had nothing left to lose.
“I have to know. Did the army have anything to do with why Jack died?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then jerked his head toward the bunkhouse. “Pack up, Hooper. Those sorts of questions aren’t safe around here.”
The Lines Between Us Page 22