by Merry Jones
Harper nodded. She’d known all that. She thought Hank had been working it out, that he’d find his new path with time. ‘He’s been dealing with all that. It’s been over a year, and so far, he’s been fine.’
Leslie paused, pursed her lips. ‘Hank’s had a lot of physical healing to do. That took his energy for quite a while. And you’ve said he’s pretty macho, right? So I imagine he’d fight his emotions. He wouldn’t let himself admit how powerless he feels, or how depressed. I mean, would he?’
No. Definitely not. Harper should have known, should have anticipated Hank’s emotional reactions to his accident. After all, she’d been terribly depressed after her injuries in Iraq; she was still suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Why should she expect Hank to be any less vulnerable?
Obviously, because she’d wanted him to be. She’d wanted to believe he was basically unchanged. Still the old Hank.
Leslie went on. ‘The fact is that to fully recover, Hank needs to go through this phase. He needs to see himself as he is, to mourn what he isn’t any more, to accept what he’s lost. He can’t really heal or integrate what happened without allowing these feelings to emerge, however sad or angry or frustrated they may be. So in a way, it’s a healthy sign that he’s not pretending any more that everything’s just dandy. He’s admitting his emotions, and that’s a big step toward coming to terms with what’s happened.’
So Hank’s depression was a good thing? Harper thought of his losses. Remembered him preparing a lecture, hiking up a mountain trail, setting up a tent in the woods. Whooshing past her downhill on skis . . . No. She couldn’t go there. That Hank was gone.
The hour was almost up. Harper’s chai sat untouched on the coffee table.
‘Next time, we’ll need to talk about your friend’s death and that assistantship. But about Hank – given his tough exterior, I’d bet that he’s struggling a lot more than he’s letting on. I’d keep a close eye on him.’
She would?
‘Make sure he knows that help is available. It’s good that you remind him how important he is to you, but he’s dealing fundamentally with himself, not your relationship. You can’t fix it for him, Harper.’
Leslie’s voice was soft but firm. She waited for her comment to sink in. Then added, ‘I can refer him to someone. If he’s willing. If he’d go.’
Oh God. Did Leslie think Hank was seriously in a crisis? That he needed professional help? ‘What are you saying?’
Leslie paused, her eyes steady on Harper’s. ‘What I’m saying is this: you love this man. You helped him survive. Now, he’s got to want to.’
On her Ninja, Harper roared down the hill, letting the chill air slap her. Thinking about Hank. How insensitive she’d been. How oblivious to his feelings. She’d been wrapped up in their life, getting it back, having him home. Continuing her PhD program as if he’d never been hurt. Pretending he was fine. How selfish of her. How superficial. How lonely he must feel.
Well, she’d make it up to him. She’d encourage him to explore new options. Maybe suggest he see a therapist? She pictured it. ‘Hank, Leslie has a referral for you. A colleague who can help you.’
He’d resent it. He’d glare. Maybe snarl. ‘You think. Need. I. Damned. Shrink?’ And stomp out of the room. Slamming the door.
No. Better to be supportive. Wait and see.
Harper stopped for a red light. Looked around the intersection. Pedestrians crossing. Cars waiting. Leaves scattering the street, golden and red. The sky pillowed with purple clouds, foreshadowing winter. She closed her eyes, collecting herself. Focusing on the moment.
Almost time to meet Burke Everett. Damn, she hadn’t even mentioned him to Leslie. Or Peter Murray’s obituary. Who had sent it? And why?
The light changed. Harper rode, taking a long route to the Ithaca Bakery, concentrating on motion, the wind on her face, the chill of the air. Trying to think of nothing.
Burke had lost his swagger. He dashed into the Ithaca Bakery, looking over his shoulders, glancing out windows. Drawing attention to himself by trying not to. Spotting Harper at a table near the door, sliding into the seat opposite her.
‘We should move.’
Not, hi. Not, good to see you. Not, you look great.
‘Move?’
‘To the corner.’
He was on his feet, leading the way. Harper followed. Burke positioned himself where he’d have the greatest view of the area: against the wall, facing the room, windows nearby. He looked around, satisfying himself that no one was watching him. Not the table of students across the room, not the elderly man reading the paper, not the guys behind the counter, not the construction workers buying coffee.
Finally, Burke’s eyes stopped wandering, settled on Harper. ‘You look good.’
‘What’s going on?’ She pictured him back in Iraq. Complaining about the rations. Or the ninety-second showers. Or the heaviness of his gear. Complaining. Always. ‘Why are you so jumpy?’
He snickered. ‘So much for foreplay.’
‘You didn’t come all the way from Milwaukee for foreplay.’
‘No.’ He looked around again. Shifted in his seat. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’
Harper riveted her gaze on him. He was practically quivering. ‘You hear about Murray?’
Burke’s eyes looked away, darted side to side. He hunched forward. Lowered his voice. ‘You got the obituary? I sent it while I was there, down in Atlanta. For the funeral.’
Why was he whispering? The funeral was no secret. Burke seemed downright paranoid. Was he having a breakdown? Some vets had trouble adjusting to civilian life, lost their grip. He looked thin, gaunt. Maybe he should eat something. Aromas of fresh bread, sugar, chocolate and cinnamon surrounded them, closing in.
‘Why don’t we get some food?’
‘No – don’t get up. Just let’s stay here a while.’ More looking around. At the door. Out the windows.
‘So you drove here all the way from Atlanta?’
He nodded. ‘Couldn’t risk buying a ticket. Look, I can’t stay long. Gotta keep moving.’
‘Burke.’ Harper leaned back. ‘I’ve got to say it: you seem – nuts.’
He let out a harsh, cough-like laugh, made a nervous, twitchy nod. And looked around again. ‘Don’t hold back, Harper. Tell me what you really think.’
‘Why do you keep looking around? Are you paranoid? You think someone’s following you?’
‘Shh – not so loud.’
‘Burke. No one’s listening.’ She picked up the sugar dispenser, looked underneath, pointed to the bottom of the glass. ‘See? No wires. No bugs. No one’s here but you and me.’
She wondered if he was dangerous. Delusional people could get violent. She readied herself, sat alert just in case.
‘It’s not a joke, Harper. Not after Pete. But you’re right; I can see where you’re coming from. I’m on edge.’ His leg bounced, vibrating the table. ‘But I’m not crazy. I swear.’
Harper said nothing, doubtful. Wondered what her responsibilities were, what she should – or even could do for him.
‘You got to believe me, Harper; you’re one of the good ones. I mean I think about the people I’ve known. There aren’t many I can trust. No matter what, though, even in the worst times, I always knew – right from the beginning back in Iraq, at that camp outside of Mosul – I could count on you. I knew that the first time I saw you.’
He did? Harper tried to recall meeting Burke. Pictured him sweating in his T-shirt, filling a Humvee’s gas tank, swatting at flies.
‘That’s why I came to you. I swear this thing is out of control. People are fucking killing each other.’
Harper watched him. ‘Burke. I’m thinking you need to sign yourself into a VA clinic. Get some meds.’
‘Fuck I do.’ Another quick look around. ‘OK. Let me explain. James Henry Baxter. Remember him? Our detail?’
Their detail? The walls of the bakery faded; Harper recalled sweat and sand coating her skin, the grumble
of a Humvee’s engine, a hot white rocky road stretching out ahead. An ambush. Yes, she remembered. She’d been in charge of the special detail, driving the colonel around Iraq. ‘Sure. What about it?’
Burke smirked. ‘We thought we lucked out, getting assigned to light duty escorting Baxter. A real plum. You, me, Maurice Shaw, Pete Murray and Rick Owens.’
The detail had lasted just one week. They’d taken Colonel Baxter around so he could attend meetings, befriend local leaders, boost troop morale, inspect projects and sites. Except for one minor skirmish, it had been nothing memorable.
‘Turned out the duty wasn’t so light – with that ambush. We saved the Colonel’s life.’
OK. So what? They’d saved the Colonel from a ragtag bunch of insurgents who’d tossed explosives at their caravan. It hadn’t been all that difficult or memorable.
‘Shaw never came home, you know. IED.’
Harper hadn’t heard. ‘Shit. I didn’t know.’ A flashback rumbled; she saw a burst of white, felt herself flying on to the top of a burnt-out car. Lifting pieces of her sergeant off of her belly. She bit her lip hard, grounding herself with pain. Focused on the smells of cinnamon and baking bread. Burke was still talking.
‘ . . . and now, Murray’s bought it.’
Murray? Oh, right. The obituary. ‘What happened? The obituary didn’t say.’
‘Because they think he fucking killed himself.’
What? Pete Murray? He’d been in her unit. Handsome, in a gingery freckled way. And good-natured, a gentleman even in war. Saying please and thank you even when asking for rounds of ammo. Promising to have people over for sand-free Sunday pot roast when they got home. Never ever cursing, careful to say ‘gosh’ instead of ‘God’ . . .
‘His mom found him on the end of a rope in her garage.’
Pete Murray had hung himself? Wow. But then, lots of war veterans had invisible emotional and psychological wounds. Maybe Pete had PTSD. Lord knew that could be deadly. If she hadn’t found support – if she hadn’t met Hank and found help from Leslie – who knew what would have happened? Maybe she’d have hanged herself, too. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder could rip your mind apart. Could be lethal.
‘At least, that’s what they say. But you and I know better.’
What? ‘Wait. You’re saying he didn’t hang himself?’
‘You knew Pete. He wouldn’t impose on his family that way. No, he would never off himself. Listen, Harper – you were Baxter’s temporary assistant. Think back. There were five of us in that detail. Two are already dead. And one is the Colonel’s personal secretary.’
Interesting. Nice gig. ‘Rick Owens? Owens works for the Colonel?’
‘He’s his fucking personal butt kisser. Which leaves just the two of us loose.’
Loose? What the hell was he talking about?
‘I’m getting some coffee. You want anything?’ She started to stand.
‘Wait.’ Burke grabbed her arm, stopping her. ‘Remember when he – when Baxter left? How we loaded the helicopter?’
Vaguely.
‘Remember he had us transfer a bunch of crates?’
She thought back, felt the heat, the dust. Heard the Humvees’ motors. The deafening whirr of the helicopter’s blades. And she saw the men: Owens, Everett, Murray and Shaw loading it with supplies. Knapsacks. And stacks of boxes.
‘I remember. So?’
‘So great. Would you testify to that?’
Testify? What? ‘Burke.’ She tried to sound non-judgmental. ‘I don’t have a clue what’s going on with you, but – honestly. You need help.’
‘Listen to me, Harper. Put it together,’ Burke sputtered. He still held her arm, tightened his grip. ‘Jesus Christ. What do you think was in those boxes?’
She shrugged. ‘Supplies?’
His eyes were too bright. ‘Guess again.’
Not supplies? What was Burke thinking? That the crates held drugs? Or – oh God – stolen artifacts? She’d heard about priceless ancient relics being looted from Iraq . . . But no, that was ridiculous. The Colonel’s crates had been legit supplies. ‘Burke, this is bullshit. Get help.’ She removed his hand from her arm.
His whisper was raw. ‘You know that Baxter started his own foundation. It sponsors some serious organizations. Militias and such. Survivalist stuff.’
Really? Harper doubted it; Burke was unbalanced. If he was right, Baxter’s activities were surprising. Maybe even disturbing. But it was his right to sponsor organizations, wasn’t it? This was a free country.
‘Not just your usual survivalist groups, either. I’m talking dangerous people. People infiltrating high places. People who make all those skinhead militia extremist freaks look like your grandma’s Canasta club.’
Actually, Burke sounded kind of like a dangerous extremist freak himself. What had happened to him? And why was he so fixated on Colonel Baxter?
His eyes gleamed. ‘And now, guess what? Baxter is running for the United States Senate. State of Tennessee.’
So what? Again, even if it was even true, what difference did it make? What did he expect her to do about it? ‘Burke. Seriously. What point are you trying to make?’
‘Harper – he’s funding the campaign with his own cash. Don’t you get it? He’s spent a few million so far.’
And? Wasn’t that his right? ‘So?’
Burke’s eyes darted from the window to the door to Harper. ‘Baxter didn’t get rich on a military salary. And he didn’t inherit any big money either. His dad was a high school history teacher. And he didn’t marry money.’
‘How do you know all that?’
‘The Internet – you can find shit out about anybody.’
Harper sighed. She wanted to get Burke help but didn’t think he’d allow it. ‘So you’re saying what? That Baxter got his money from Iraq? That he stole something?’
Burke smiled. ‘Bingo.’
‘What did he steal?’
He tilted his head, scowling. ‘Money. Harper – the US sent billions over there to be used at the discretion of the military.’
She knew about it. Everyone did. The Commander’s Emergency Response Program was set up to provide cash for local programs and projects. Funds were supposed to turn enemies into friends, sponsor local initiatives, counter the root causes of instability and marginalize extremist groups.
‘Literally, billions are missing. Tons of crates filled with hundred dollar bills.’
‘So you think Baxter dipped into CERP and he’s using that money to fund his campaign?’
‘And his lifestyle. And his foundation. Believe me, our Colonel is one ambitious and dangerous dude.’ He looked around again.
Harper frowned. It was no secret that CERP funds had been badly managed. But Burke had no evidence. He was irrational, pooling together unrelated events, jumping to conclusions. ‘I don’t know—’
‘You think I’m nuts.’ His leg wouldn’t stop twitching. ‘Believe me – I thought it was fucking nuts, too, when Pete called to talk about it. But a couple weeks later, boom – Pete shows up on the fucking end of a rope. This is for real, Harper. A lot is at stake. You and I are in danger.’
‘No, Burke. I don’t—’
‘We’re the only ones left who knew about the theft!’
‘Except that I didn’t know about it. In fact, I still don’t—’
‘That doesn’t matter, don’t you get it, Harper? He thinks you know. Or that you might know. And he can’t afford to have anyone knowing or even maybe knowing. That’s why he hired Rick. He bought him off.’
Burke’s eyes popped, pupils dilated. There was no point trying to reason with him. Harper let him go on ranting. When he finished, she simply asked, ‘Bottom line, Burke. What do you want from me?’
He let out a long sigh. His eyes drilled into hers. ‘I need to know that you’ll back me up.’
Back him up? ‘Back you up how?’
‘I’m going to expose him. So if and when the time comes, I need to know you’ll confirm
what happened with the boxes. Testify that we loaded all that cargo at the Colonel’s orders.’
‘Burke, I’m sorry. I’m not agreeing to do anything until I’m sure what’s going on. Because, frankly, I see not one real piece of evidence to back up your accusations. In fact, the only evidence I see here indicates that you need help and some serious meds.’
‘I swear, I’ll get you evidence.’
‘Aren’t you married, Burke?’ She interrupted, redirected his attention. ‘How’s your wife?’
Burke’s eyes narrowed. ‘How’d you know about that?’
‘About what?’
‘Who told you?’
‘Nobody told me anything. I’m just asking—’
‘She threw me out. Said it was the war.’
Harper nodded, unsurprised. ‘Sorry. Maybe she was right. You should get help.’
‘I’m not fucking nuts, Harper.’ His gaze pierced her.
A man in a tan suede jacket walked into the bakery, looked around. Talked on his cell phone. Went to buy a Danish.
Burke stiffened, eyeing the man. ‘Gotta go. It’s not safe. Look – I get that you won’t believe me until you see proof. But at least be cautious, will you? Oh – and don’t tell anyone you saw me. Don’t even mention my name.’
‘Burke, that’s—’
‘Harper, you and I are the only witnesses left. We’re liabilities. I’m not fucking with you – Rick’s his lackey. And Pete’s dead. That’s evidence enough, isn’t it? That should show you how big this is.’ He stood, whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll explain more next time we meet.’
‘What makes you think –’ Harper began, but Burke darted away before she could finish her sentence – ‘that there’ll be a next time?’
The Ninja sped back up the hill, found its way to Stewart Avenue, then up to College Town. Seeing Burke Everett had rattled her. Brought back images Harper didn’t want to see. She fought with her memory, focusing on shops windows filled with Halloween decorations: jack-o’-lanterns, skeletons, witches, ghosts. Reminding herself that pedestrians, not checkpoint patrols, stood at intersections; that students toting backpacks, not soldiers lugging heavy gear, occupied the sidewalks. Snipers weren’t aiming at her; IEDs weren’t buried in the road. Harper raced ahead, trying not to think of Burke Everett or their time in Iraq. But as she crossed the bridge toward campus, she distinctly saw the woman in a burqa standing beside the street. And, oh God. She recognized her. Had seen her before. Knew what she was planning. And this time – even if it killed her – this time, she would stop her . . .