Word of Honor

by Nelson DeMille

  “And if I can’t reach my attorney?”

  “Well . . . then mail them to me in Washington.”

  “You need them to include in your report.”

  “Yes.”

  “The one that’s due five days from today?”

  “Well . . . I thought I’d get this taken care of while you were here. Also there was the umbrella—”

  “It was good of you to walk across post to deliver these forms and the umbrella. Especially considering you could have had everything delivered to the museum tomorrow morning. But I like the personal touch.”

  “Yes, it was good of me.” She changed the subject. “Will your family be joining you here?”

  Tyson replied, “I think that given a choice between a beach resort and here, they’ll opt for the beach.”

  She didn’t respond, but he knew what she was thinking. He added, “It’s not a matter of loyalty or being a fair-weather family or being supportive. It’s simply a practical matter. I don’t want them here, and I’ve told them so. I’ll see them on weekends.”

  She nodded.

  He added, “Tight quarters can lead to unnecessary stress. My son wouldn’t have any friends. Marcy might be subject to some harassment—by the media. That sort of thing.”

  Karen Harper nodded again.

  Tyson cleared his throat. “Of course I realize they could go back to Garden City, and we’d be much closer. But I think everyone is better off staying where they are for the summer at least.”

  “I think so.” She put her beer on the coffee table and looked at her watch. “We’ve been here about ten minutes. That’s about as long as we should be here.”

  “In case someone is watching.”

  “Yes, in case someone is watching. As it turns out, they knew I went back to your room that night. So I’m glad I put it in my report. But I don’t want to have to do any more explaining.” She moved toward the door.

  Tyson set down his beer bottle and slipped on his sandals and a T-shirt. He opened the door, and they left together.

  They walked down to Sterling Drive, which overlooked the Shore Parkway. Tyson gazed out over the water. There was something undeniably magical about harbor lights and boats on a summer evening.

  She said, “I suppose you think I came to your quarters because I wanted to see you. Well, I’m not sure if that’s true or not. When I got there and saw the lights were out, I thought you weren’t in. And I felt . . . I felt . . .”

  “A combination of relief and disappointment.”

  “Yes. I thought about taking a walk and coming back with that envelope and the umbrella, but then . . . then I decided to just drop them off. . . .”

  “And the thought crossed your mind that I might be at the guest house looking for you and that we’d miss one another.”

  She nodded. “Why don’t I feel foolish?”

  “Because you know I don’t find it foolish.” He stopped walking but did not face her. Instead he looked out at the indistinct horizon where the black ocean met the black sky. He said, “The circumstances under which we met were intense and emotional, and so we could have expected one of two intense and emotional reactions: hate or . . . well, repulsion or attraction might be better words.”

  “I know that. I’m wondering if I’d met you under normal circumstances if I’d have given you a second look.”

  Tyson smiled. “If I’d met you under other circumstances, I’d have taken notice.”

  She began walking again, and he followed. She said, “Let’s talk about something else. I wanted to give you some pointers regarding any statement you might choose to include in my report.”

  He replied, “I gave you a statement you could use when we first met. What would be the purpose of another one?”

  “Well, in that statement you said you were conducting military operations against an armed enemy. It was fine as far as it went. But what you have to do is to categorically deny the allegations of the witnesses against you. Brandt and Farley. You see, those witnesses are all that the government has against you. Picard’s interview with Sister Teresa is hearsay and not admissible. Also, there is no documentary evidence against you and no physical evidence. So the Army’s case, if there is one, revolves around Brandt and to a lesser extent Farley.”

  Tyson nodded. He’d figured that out by himself. “So I should directly contradict what they said?”

  “Yes. Or show why they would lie or why they would not be impartial witnesses for the prosecution. In other words, weaken their credibility by revealing whether or not there was any bad blood between you. As we say in law, impeach the witnesses.”

  “That’s good of you to tell me that.”

  “Any lawyer would tell you the same thing. But when it comes from me, it is a hint that if you discredit Brandt—and Brandt is the key—then the Army may very well drop the investigation.”

  Tyson nodded.

  “Can you discredit Brandt?”

  “Perhaps in a sense I could. But that would mean saying something about what he did over there, of course. Not how he’s led his life since then, because I don’t know anything about him except what I read and that seems to indicate he’s a fine doctor, married for sixteen years, with a son my son’s age and a daughter. Why would I want to tell a tale that happened nearly two decades ago? Is saving my own skin that important?”

  “I hope so.”

  “But that would be contrary to what I believe, which is that the past ought to be forgiven. If I want to be judged by how I’ve lived my life since Vietnam, how could I justify dragging up the past and throwing it in Brandt’s face?”

  “He threw it in your face.”

  “That’s his problem. I won’t make it mine.”

  She shook her head. “Colonel Levin was right.”

  Tyson gave her a sidelong glance. He said, “It’s not that I have no sense of self-preservation. It’s that I do. Every piece of advice I’ve gotten so far has been somehow repugnant to me. I’m the one who has to live with Ben Tyson after this is over. I’m going to try to beat this thing, but not by deception, compromise, or name-calling. I want a clean verdict on this, even if the verdict is guilty.”

  She nodded. “You’re entitled to do it your way.” She added, “But given the facts I’ve assembled and given the fact that you won’t make a statement impeaching Brandt’s statement, then I hope you understand that if I recommend that charges be served on you, I have no choice.”

  “I won’t take it personally.”

  She walked off the drive onto the sloping grass and stared at the traffic passing on the Shore Parkway, her hands in the pockets of her tan slacks. She said, as if to herself, “What else can I do?”

  Tyson stood off to the side and looked at her. A land breeze was coming up, and her hair began to blow. Tyson thought she looked very at home out-of-doors, very at ease in the elements. He said, “Why don’t you believe Sadowski and Scorello? Are you calling them blatant liars? And me a liar?”

  She turned her head toward him. “No. But as a practical matter, allegations of wrongdoing are given more weight than denials of wrongdoing.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s obvious. It’s common sense. Steven Brandt is a respected physician and—”

  “Never mind. I understand that too.” He looked to his left. About ninety miles east along this same shore was Sag Harbor, and he felt some anger and bitterness that he wasn’t there with his wife and son on the back terrace of his summer home. But he felt, too, that if he were with them at Thanksgiving, he would be with them in a better way. He said, “Ninety days?”

  “Yes, that’s the law.”

  “Can the Army wrap this up in ninety days?”

  “They can wrap it up next week if they choose to drop it. But if they choose to press on, then all that remains to be done in a case like this is to contact the remaining witnesses and determine whose witnesses they will be.”

  “Did you find any of the remaining witnesses?”

 
“I put a memo in the envelope.”

  “What did the memo in the envelope say?”

  She looked at him. “You’d have heard it on the news tonight. It will be in tomorrow’s papers. Harold Simcox was killed in an automobile accident. Near his home in Madison, Wisconsin. His car hit a bridge abutment at a very high speed. There was a high alcohol level in his blood.”

  Tyson contemplated the shimmering water for a while and tried to conjure up Simcox’s face but was surprised to discover he could not. Even his recent perusal of his Army photo album did not help. Simcox was always somewhere else, or his face was turned from the camera or covered with grotesque camouflage makeup or in deep shadow under the Australian bush hat he liked to wear. Harold Simcox. Tyson felt bad about that, but he also felt a sense of foreboding: spooky actually. He said to Karen Harper, “Accident?”

  “I don’t know.” She added, “He was divorced, out of work, alcoholic, and sort of a loner from what I’ve been told. He left no note.”

  “Well, sometimes there’s nothing to say.” And, he thought, sometimes there is too much to say that is better left unsaid. Harold Simcox, he reflected, a possible suicide. Moody dead of cancer. He recalled the patrols through the defoliated areas. That was a war that would not stop killing and maiming. Richard Farley would be next. He said slowly, “I’m not superstitious . . . but the Army has bad-luck outfits like the Navy has bad-luck ships. I always somehow felt that the Seventh Cavalry was an ill-fated unit. The Little Big Horn was not the only bad day that outfit had.” He drew a deep breath. “Well, perhaps it’s not luck or fate but a matter of the collective psyches of military units, an institutional memory, as Colonel Levin suggested.”

  She didn’t respond, and they both stood in silence. The wind was picking up, and heat lightning flashed over Staten Island. After some time she turned and began walking back the way they’d come. Tyson followed. She came to a park bench and sat. Tyson sat on the opposite end. He said, “Did you go to the monument?”

  She nodded.

  He waited, then said, “It’s the sort of monument you put off seeing. I did.”

  “Yes, so did I. Because it’s a gravestone.” She added, “But seeing that wall with all those names gave me some perspective. I kept thinking that each man there did not die alone but died in combat among his friends, and those friends had the means to avenge those deaths, which is so unlike civilian death. And I thought that the chevron shape of that wall, which could stand for Vietnam, could also stand for vengeance. I thought that war, which is conceived in terms of global strategy, is ultimately fought by men who take it personally. And I tried to use that perspective to help me understand what may have happened at Miséricorde Hospital.”

  Tyson did not respond.

  At length she said, “Well, anyway, regarding the witnesses. Precluding any more deaths, there will be at least four witnesses present at any judicial proceeding. There will be the two witnesses for the prosecution, Brandt and Farley, and the two for the defense, Sadowski and Scorello. Louis Kalane, Hernando Beltran, and Lee Walker will eventually be found. Dan Kelly and Michael DeTonq may never be accounted for. And then there’s Sister Teresa.”

  He looked down the length of the bench at her.

  She said, “No luck there. I’m beginning to wonder why she hasn’t turned up.”

  Tyson replied, “I’m beginning to wonder if she ever existed. I mean, this whole thing has a strong sense of unreality about it. I can’t believe it is happening, so I can’t take any of it too seriously. This is very much like my first combat experience. It was so unreal—people firing rifles with live ammunition at me. Do you know what I did? I laughed. It was too ludicrous. It was a war movie. So, now, nearly two decades later, people are asking me to relive an experience that I didn’t believe was happening while it was happening. Am I making sense?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard that before, including the part about laughing in combat.” She looked away from him and said, “That reminds me. The Army will want you to see a panel of psychiatrists before too long. That’s standard these days for capital crimes investigations.”

  “Is it? What does that say about us as a nation? Why, I wonder, don’t they order me before a board of chaplains to test if I am morally healthy? If my moral health is unsound, then I need religious and ethical therapy, not a court-martial.”

  She smiled. “Somehow that’s not as absurd as it sounds. Nevertheless, you will be extensively tested—psychologically.” She added, “I suppose you resent all of this. I mean, being ordered here and there to do this and that.”

  “That is an understatement. I resented having to take a physical, having my picture taken for an ID card, being assigned to post housing, being told to get a haircut, being told what the uniform of the day is, and so on, and so on.”

  Karen Harper said, “You’re a real civilian. But if you recall, you get used to it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. I’d like not to get used to it. I’d like to retain my personality and my sense of myself.”

  “You have to bend a bit in the service. Don’t be angry or bitter. Or if you are, don’t show it. It’s not productive.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. I don’t want to hate the Army or my country or anyone associated with this investigation. There are no evil geniuses out there looking to crucify me. There are only paper-shufflers who are doing their jobs according to the law as it is written. The fact that many may be guilty, but only one is indictable, should not make me question the wisdom of the law.”

  “You are angry.”

  “Anyway, the way to beat the legal system is with lawyers. So with your advice in mind to get a better lawyer, I called one whose name was given to me. He called me back after I returned to the museum this afternoon.”

  She inquired, “Have you retained him?”

  “I think I may. He sounded fairly bright. I have a meeting scheduled with him tomorrow morning. But I have a group of summer-school kids coming in for the tour. What do you advise?”

  She smiled. “Go see the lawyer. By the way, did your group of senior citizens wait for you?”

  “Oh, yes. They have nothing but time. They asked me embarrassing questions about you. Wanted to know what my intentions were actually.”

  She smiled again but did not respond. She said, “If you retain this lawyer, let me know so I can enter his name and address in my report.”

  “I’ll tell you his name now. It’s Vincent Corva.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, I know him. He’s certified by the JAG office.”

  “So he said. But is he good?”

  “Well, that’s not my place to say. But I saw him in court once in Fort Jackson.”

  “Who won?”

  “The Army. Well . . . it was a tough case. The accused—a captain—was charged with manslaughter.” She added, “He’d found his wife in bed with her lover.”

  “Ah! This sounds good. Continue.”

  She shrugged. “Well . . . this captain was officer-of-the-guard one night, and while he was driving his jeep checking the sentry posts, he detoured back to his house. I guess he had a suspicion. Anyway, he found them . . . his wife and a young lieutenant . . . together . . . in flagrante delicto . . . drew his forty-five, fired, and killed the lover.”

  Tyson leaned toward her, feigning more interest than he had in the case. “How close was he when he fired? How many shots? Who was he trying to hit?”

  She smiled again, and he could see she thought him amusing. She replied, “It’s funny you should ask that. Corva, in his summation, said something like, ‘Any soldier who can hit a . . . moving target with an Army forty-five, with one shot, at twenty-three feet, without injuring the person . . . directly beneath the intended target, should be commended for his marksmanship, regardless of his inability to exercise the same sort of control over his emotions’ . . . or something like that.” She added, “It was an absurd statement and rather idiotic . . . but you know, it worked.”

  “Di
d the court find it amusing?”

  “Yes. There was laughter. That statement appealed to all that was . . . macho . . . on that board of officers.”

  “So how did the defendant do?”

  “He received one to ten . . . for the manslaughter. But they slapped him with two years for leaving his post and dereliction of duty.”

  “Typical Army,” commented Tyson. “He would have been in more trouble if his pistol had misfired because it was dirty.”

  Karen Harper stretched her legs out and settled back on the bench. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. But your point, I assume, is that the military gives different priorities to some offenses than do civilian courts. That’s something you and Mr. Corva ought to keep in mind. I’m sure you both will. Anyway, I understand he’s rather good though his record is not so good. He takes mostly hopeless cases.” She looked out toward the ocean. “There’s a storm coming. See it?”

  Tyson turned from her and gazed out over the water. He could see whitecaps forming on the dark blue expanse of open sea, and the stars on the horizon were obscured by a blurriness that he knew was rain.

  She stood. “I’d better get back. I have work to do.”

  He stood also, and they began walking. A few drops of rain began falling, and the hot blacktop steamed. He said, “I’ll lend you my umbrella again if you promise not to lose it.”

  She picked up her pace. “Well . . .” The rain became heavier. Ahead were the lights of the officer family housing. The guest house was a quarter mile away. She said, “All right,” and began moving quickly toward his housing unit. The rain became heavier. They both broke into a run.

  They reached the front door soaking wet. Tyson hadn’t locked the door, and he threw it open. They ducked quickly inside, out of breath. Tyson wiped the rain from his eyes and cheeks. He said, “Let me get you a towel to dry off.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “No. I have three Army towels. Do you want to stay until this passes over?”

  “No. I’ll just take the umbrella.”

  “I can drive you to the guest house.”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “Beer?”