by Kirk Russell
“Maybe he saw it as the only way.”
I tried another slice of anchovy pizza. The taste was sharp and salty and the beer cool and sweet behind it. Death wasn’t Jeremy’s only way out. In ten years, who knows where he would have been? He was getting there before all this. He would have made it. I laid the pizza slice down.
“All of the drones would have launched if not for Jeremy. In the last seconds I was yelling at him to pull over. I heard him say, ‘Clear my name.’”
“The FBI will do that, won’t they?”
“Months from now after the investigation is complete, and it’ll be muddy. He was a person of interest and he won’t be around to defend himself.”
Jo reached over and placed her hand on mine.
“Are you going to say something tomorrow? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I’m thinking about it. Even after his hard ending with the air force and the drone strike that killed Hakim Salter, Jeremy still believed the truth would take care of itself. I think that’s why he got stuck on Salter’s death and couldn’t get past it. He was very down about being questioned by us and assaulted by the media. He didn’t see a future.” My mind tripped forward. “He didn’t sound afraid. His voice was clear.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“You’re talking about Jeremy, but you’re thinking about Julia too.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know you.”
“Crossing the Bureau tomorrow could get me transferred to North Dakota.”
“That wouldn’t be good for her.”
“It would be different.”
“No kidding.”
I sat on that a minute, then said, “I’ve got to say something. I’ve got to speak for Jeremy.”
She was quiet. She saw problems with that and asked, “Is tomorrow the right time to do that?”
“If I don’t, his story will get written the wrong way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The media doesn’t like to admit mistakes any more than the Bureau does.”
We left it there. The next morning Julia wanted to walk out of the hospital, but for legal reasons related to prior lawsuits, they wouldn’t let her. They brought her out in a wheelchair and, in defiance, she stepped out of it before it reached the curb. She didn’t want anyone’s help getting into my car, yet she was trembling as she fumbled with her seat belt.
“Are you sure, Julia?”
“I’m sure.”
“If we don’t do this, you’ll remember them the way they were when they were alive.”
“I know, but I have to.”
She couldn’t know but was still adamant about seeing them. I had called ahead, and they were waiting at the morgue. The smell was as it always was in the morgue, but it was new to her, and I saw her react and shiver in the cold air and cringe at smells she’d never forget.
“My mom, my dad, and then Nate,” she said, and the drawers were opened one at a time, the rubber pulled back to show only their faces. Julia registered shock. A voice inside me said, This is wrong; you shouldn’t have let her do this.
Yet Julia’s voice remained strong as she said, “Good-bye, Mom, I love you forever,” and that drawer shut. It clicked closed. She said the same thing to her dad, and I got a glimpse of the woman she would grow into. I saw strength. I saw Melissa and Jim in her and felt a surge of grief for everything. Nate was last. She leaned over him and whispered something I didn’t hear.
We walked out, back into bright heat and into the too-hot car, and she wept as we drove away, but also thanked me and told me she was glad we had gone. I put an arm around her as we parked and got out at the family house.
As we stood on the driveway, Julia said, “After the bomb I didn’t remember anything about the party. I still don’t.”
I nodded. Investigators were frustrated but hopeful her memory would return. They looked to me to make it happen.
“Uncle Paul, I had to see them. I had to know.”
“That they were really dead?”
“Yes.”
Though the family always entered through the back gate, Julia wanted to go in the front. She unlocked it with her key. Inside it was cool and dark, and Julia turned toward the kitchen as we stepped in, as if expecting Coal to come running, before remembering we were picking him up next. I moved into the kitchen and let her return to the house in her own way.
She seemed at a loss and sat down on a couch, then rose silently and walked into her brother’s room. I heard her break down there. Her wracking sobs brought a great wave of sadness up through me and I opened the door to the backyard. I stepped out, smelling the chlorine in the pool and the dusty heat of a summer morning, another day in Las Vegas. From the corner of my eye through the slider I saw her pass wraithlike, a shadow crossing the living room on her way to her parents’ bedroom.
Later, when I checked on her, I saw Jim’s air force dress coat and cap lying on the bed and Julia sitting at her mother’s makeup station with several photos alongside her. Her fingers traced the face of her dad. She trembled as tears dripped off her cheeks. I wanted to put my arm around her, but backed quietly out of the room instead. An hour later she came out into the backyard with two suitcases and sat down across from me.
“We’ll come back until you have everything you want,” I said.
“I don’t know what to do, Uncle Paul.” Through her tears she repeated, “What do I do?”
“You say good-bye and then you carry them forever. Can you remember their voices?”
“Yes.”
“Then talk to them.”
“Even though they’re not here?”
“Yes.”
We picked up Coal, who charged Julia and almost knocked her down. Coal hadn’t forgotten her at all. He was wondering who’d forgotten him. I made peace with Patricia and Charlie, thanking them for their kindnesses. From news reports they seemed to think I was a kind of hero, which wasn’t true at all. We left things in a good place and Coal nuzzled my hand with a sort of “Glad you also showed up, buddy, I guess you’re good for something” and then ran back to Julia. She wrapped her arms around him and he rode in the front seat with us as we drove away.
We share in grief and ritualize letting go and moving on, but at heart, all true grief is private. There was only so much I could do for Julia, yet I knew from watching her she’d find her way.
“Uncle Paul, do we have time for one more stop? I saw the flowers on TV.”
She didn’t have to say any more. I turned at the next corner and backtracked to the Alagara. As we got close, I had to tell her, “We won’t have long. There’s a press conference I have to be at.”
“I just need to see.”
I understood. At the Alagara there were people taking photos. I parked down the street and we walked back and caught a moment there when it was just us. There were many different types of flowers and maybe a thousand roses. The air was rich with their scent. Since I was last here, someone had made a peace sign in the lot with white roses. We stood for a little while, then I looked at her.
“Uncle Paul, is it okay if I take some flowers?”
“Take whatever you want, Julia.”
She knelt and sorted white roses until she had three she liked and laid them in her palm one on one on one with great tenderness. Then we walked away.
Jo was waiting when we got to my house. She and Julia would pack while I was at the press conference. I wore a dark blue suit and the white shirt the director liked. I stood alongside Venuti, who right down to the buff shine on his shoes looked dressed for an inauguration.
“You’ve got to do this the right way,” Venuti said with the pompousness I’ve never liked. “This is a Bureau interview, not a Paul Grale interview. Don’t fuck it up. Be the humble hero and don’t go anywhere you’ll regret.”
The director spoke first then introduced me. I stood at a temporary podium and faced r
eporters, some who I recognized from national TV. I picked Kelly Raley first. Her hair was ginned up and her makeup deft. It gave her face gravitas without looking somber.
“Special Agent Grale, I’m speaking as an American when I say we all want to thank you.”
“I was just one of many in law enforcement working together.”
“You had a special role. How did you know the drone attack was coming?”
“A former air force drone pilot, Lieutenant Jeremy Beatty, alerted me. He saw things at a private airfield that worried him. I’ve known him for years and trusted him, so I listened and followed up on what he gave us.”
“Let me get this straight, you’re saying the ex–drone pilot Beatty helped the FBI?”
“Yes. He did.”
“We’re hearing he was being investigated for espionage and possible collusion with the terrorists.”
“He stumbled into a DOD investigation by test-flying drones in Taiwan. I think the Department of Defense will acknowledge that he had no espionage role.”
“Could he have been among the plotters here, then changed his mind?”
“I’m not aware of any facts supporting that. Prior to the attack he raised concerns about the pilots and after he was fired from his instructor’s job, he continued to pass on information. From a position where he was camping, he observed that the pilots and drones were gone and called me. That proved to be critical, and you know what he did when he found out the drones were on the highway.”
“Some have called that a suicidal attempt at redemption.”
“Yeah, I heard that, but I was talking with him as he drove toward the drones.”
“Why does the Bureau account differ from yours?”
I paused and looked out at the expectant faces. Behind me, the director cleared his throat. When I didn’t answer fast enough, Kelly Raley moved on.
“We’re hearing from sources that a gun he owned was used to kill the security guards and the job broker Edward Bahn. He then discovered the bodies.”
“Your sources don’t have that information. They’re speculating.”
“One of those sources is well up in the Bureau.”
“Give me a name and I’ll brief that person.”
That elicited some nervous laughs, and I knew with that comment, I’d crossed a line. I should back down.
“What about the targeting of cities on the computers in his trailer?”
“That was training software for teaching drone pilots. You can find much worse things in video games your kids play.”
“Does your personal connection color your view?”
I nodded.
“Sure, it does. I had known Jeremy for years. He was the real deal and loved the air force but developed a problem with civilian casualties that came to a head with the drone strike that killed the American schoolteacher Hakim Salter. I remember you reporting that story, Kelly, after the family challenged the official version.”
She nodded.
“Lieutenant Beatty launched the missile that killed the Taliban in the courtyard and Hakim Salter. He had issues with that. It led to a breakdown and what’s called ‘kill inhibition.’ He struggled, no question Jeremy struggled, and continued to after his discharge, but look at what he did when he thought drones were targeting Creech Air Force Base.”
An audible murmur passed through the crowd, and I knew I was out on my own. I pointed at another reporter, though behind me feet shuffled. The signal was there. Cut it off.
“Sir, the Salter drone strike you’re referencing has been reviewed and validated,” the reporter said.
“I can’t comment on the validation process, but the pilot who participated in the strike with Lieutenant Beatty agrees with Beatty’s account of events. I’ve talked to him. But I’m getting off topic here. Any other questions?”
I nodded toward another reporter and took his question.
“Special Agent Grale, you’ve given us a very different version of Beatty’s role yesterday.”
“All I can do is tell you what I saw and what I know of the evidence. From what I know, from the leads I worked from, I’d call Jeremy Beatty a hero.”
That caused a buzz among the reporters.
“You said you were on the phone with him as he drove toward the drones. Can you tell us what he said?”
“You’ll have to wait for the phone transcripts to be released, but I can tell you I tried to get him to stop his truck and protect himself.”
“Sir, individuals at various law enforcement agencies, not just the FBI, have implied charges would come and that Jeremy Beatty was a co-conspirator.”
“Is that a question?”
“I guess the question is, how can your version be so different?”
“That I can answer. I was there.”
I stared out at the room and behind me, Venuti’s voice was low and hard. “End it.”
On the ride back to the field office, Venuti said, “You’re going to get extended leave and you’re not to do any interviews. Zero. No reporters. Not the one that calls you from LA or that cute TV reporter here, none of them. Talk to them and you’re fired. As it is, you may want to clear out your desk so it isn’t done for you. Throw it all in a box and show it to me and I’ll walk you to the door.”
“So I’m gone?”
Venuti wouldn’t answer.
“When does this leave start?”
“It starts when you drive off the lot. Don’t show up tomorrow thinking you’re needed for something. You’re not. You were way over the line there. As a matter of fact, you’ve always been over the line. You’re a street agent who has always had one foot out the door. You flout the rules. You—”
“Out there is where it all happens, Dan.”
“We all make choices. You made another today, same as you chose to go to Iraq and defuse bombs. What you can get away with in our office is different than what you get away with in a national press conference. You directly contradicted a Bureau position in an ongoing investigation.”
“The Bureau is investigating. It doesn’t have a position yet.”
“Okay, Grale, whatever you say.”
Venuti exhaled hard but said nothing as we pulled into the field office garage. Upstairs, he left me alone at my desk. There were only a few photos, but they mattered. I found a small box and put the photos and an ancient leather-bound notebook and a camera I liked in it. There were other smaller tokens and talismans that I sorted and dropped in. I put the electronic devices the Bureau would want to wipe clean in an upper drawer. Into my box, I put the small wooden plaque my nephew, Nate, had made. It carried the Bureau motto, “Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.” For now, I kept my badge and gun.
Downstairs, Venuti caught me walking toward the door and walked with me. He commented on the box tucked under my left arm.
“That’s all you’re taking? If I were you I’d clear everything and turn in my badge and gun.”
“I’ll turn them in after I’m fired.”
“Save yourself a trip.”
I stopped at the door and Venuti took a step back and put his hands on his hips.
“You’re as good an investigator and bomb tech as I’ve ever met, Grale, but you’ve never been enough of a team player. If you’d done it right, you could have gotten yourself promoted today.”
“And who would have spoken up for Beatty?”
“Beatty was a head case. He had trouble defining reality. Who quits one short of a thousand enemy kills? No one would, but your friend Beatty did.”
I tried to understand where he was coming from with that. Why say it? I stood quiet a moment and thought about Jeremy. Among the definitions of a signature wound is moral injury. Grief plays in. Guilt. But not necessarily fear. Maybe I understood Beatty better than Dan. Maybe I shared something with him. Then I had another thought.
“He never really quit,” I said.
“That’s right, I forgot. He was medically discharged. They got rid of him.”
“You
still don’t get it. He never quit. He crossed over a thousand kills yesterday protecting Creech Air Force Base. See you later, Dan.”
That afternoon Julia and I put together her new bedroom and we picked a date for the memorial. Jo called to say her colleagues would cover her rounds for ten days, and the next morning the three of us packed and climbed into my old Jeep with Coal to start the long drive to Colorado and the little cabin Jim and I bought together so many years ago. Julia would get to see and stay in the cabin she’d heard about all her life but never been to.
Melissa wouldn’t go there because the cabin needed so much work, but it would be fine for a week in July. It was outside of Ouray, not far from Telluride. It would be new country for Julia but connected to everything before. I watched Jo put on a baseball cap and glasses, and just before pulling away I turned and looked at Julia in the backseat with Coal leaning against her. She knew I was checking on her. She knew I knew how hard it was.
“You ready, Julia?”
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s go.”
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to my agent, Philip Spitzer, and to Lukas Ortiz, of the Spitzer Literary Agency. Concentration vanished after the death of my wife, Judy, in 2013. Philip’s enthusiasm and confidence that he would sell this novel did much for me when I returned to writing and sent him this story. Thanks as well to former FBI agent and crime writer George Fong, and to John Tanza, also career FBI, now retired from the Las Vegas Field Office. Acquiring editor Jacquelyn Ben-Zekry of Thomas & Mercer hooked into the novel, bought it, and made it better, as did Peggy Hageman’s knowing and insightful editing. Thank you Kevin Smith, and a nod to an old friend, fellow writer Tony Broadbent for those conversations long ago.
About the Author
Photo © 2016 Shoey Sindel Photography
Kirk Russell is the author of numerous thrillers and crime novels, including Shell Games, Redback, and One Through the Heart. His book Dead Game was named one of the top ten crime novels of 2005 by the American Library Association. Russell’s novels have had numerous starred reviews. Among them, Library Journal referred to his Counterfeit Road as “an addictive police procedural on speed.” Russell lives in Berkeley, California.