Unquiet Ghosts

by Glenn Meade

  “And Kyle?”

  My father took another swallow of Jameson, his mouth tight, bitter. “Kyle tried to save two badly burned infants. All that was left of their mother was a clump of burning flesh. The children didn’t make it, either. The whole thing affected him severely. He was the youngest soldier there and hadn’t experienced battle. I could see it in his eyes. See how much it disturbed him.”

  His gaze never left my face. “I wanted him close to me so I could keep an eye on him. That’s why Jack kept him under his wing, too. But I didn’t protect him in the end, did I? I helped send my son over the edge. Caused him to be a cripple, a vegetable.”

  Tears escaped the corners of his eyes. They searched mine, as if my father was frantically seeking some kind of solace that he couldn’t find. I didn’t give in.

  He picked up one of the photographs on the kitchen shelves. Of himself, in dress uniform, wearing his service ribbons and medals. But no Medal of Honor, and I always figured that rankled. He stared at the image, then held it up to show me.

  “That uniform was my life. It was and is who I am. But you don’t think a day goes by when I don’t blame myself for what happened? That day haunts me. It’s my past, my present, my future. The Army wanted it to go away. And that suited everyone. What do you think would have happened if the Army got the blame? There would be a public outcry. A trial, maybe personnel found guilty. Everyone involved would be affected. Me included. Jack. Kyle, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His care is mostly paid for through the Veterans Administration. You think that care would continue at the same level if he was deemed to have been party to a massacre? If he was branded a war criminal? Kyle could be cut adrift, lose some of his privileges. What happens then? Who’s going to take care of him?”

  My father’s shoulders sagged. “And you don’t think I’m paying the price after what happened to Kyle? Maybe even what happened to Jack and the kids? I’m paying. I’m paying in spades, Kath. War is sheer hell. There never were truer words spoken. Never.”

  “But there are still some causes worth fighting for, right? Like twenty-five million dollars?”

  His eyes lit with fury. He vigorously shook his head. “I have no idea what happened to the money, Kath. None. You have to believe that. You think I’d be living like this if I did?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “What have I to show for a crime like that? I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Look, the first I heard about the missing money was days later, when military intelligence got involved. And by then the trail had gone cold.”

  “What trail?”

  “No one even knew if the money was in the convoy or not.”

  I held my ground, waited for more.

  “Have you ever seen twenty-five million all at once? I have, and more, when we were doling it out to the Iraqis. You’d need a truck, maybe more than one. OK, CID suspected someone could have driven off with it. A number of vehicles escaped that day once the shooting started. Likely driven by insurgents. All of our men were accounted for. Maybe there needed to be collusion of some kind, some forward planning, but no evidence of that was ever found.”

  “Didn’t the suspicion persist that one or more of your men were involved in the theft?”

  “It could persist forever, but the hard evidence wasn’t there.”

  “Did Mom know about all this?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Once I overheard her talking in her sleep. She called out your name. As far as I remember, her words went something like this: ‘Frank, you have to take this further . . . you have to tell the authorities. But who? Who’ll kill us? No, that’s absurd.’ That was what she said. You don’t forget words like that. When I asked her the next day, she claimed she didn’t know what she’d been talking about. But I think she was lying.”

  He looked right at me, not a shred of fear in his face. But then, he was a soldier, so I almost expected that. “Was your mom drunk when she said those words?”

  “I guess.”

  “Kath, we both know your mom said a lot of weird things when she was drunk or smoking a joint. Things that didn’t add up.”

  “You have no idea what she meant?”

  “None.”

  Why didn’t I believe him? “What about the word Red on the piece of envelope from her safe? It meant Red Rock, didn’t it?”

  My father sounded exasperated. “Kath, I really have no idea. Not even the police could determine what it meant, or if it was part of a word or a name or whatever. We’ve been through all this years ago.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  His face had deep lines now. “Why would I lie?”

  “There’s . . . there’s an envelope. I have proof.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You need to see it.”

  62

  * * *

  I grabbed my tote bag. I removed the two photographs from the envelope and tossed them onto the study desk.

  My father picked them up, studied the images, and tilted the photograph to read the black-markered words. I watched his face. Not a muscle seemed to move or change at first, or maybe it just happened so subtly that I didn’t notice. For a few moments, he looked unaffected, but then his face transformed.

  His skin bleached white, as if a mask had slipped or he’d been slapped. His reaction made my stomach drop.

  “Where . . . where did you get these?” His voice cracked.

  “Someone left them on the passenger seat of my car. Don’t ask me who.” I told him about the intruder but held back telling him about the exact details on the dam.

  He paled even more.

  “The man on the bridge was a vet named Quentin Lusk. Did you know him?”

  He nodded. “He was a good soldier. But . . . I believe he had some mental-health issues. He suffered serious shrapnel wounds.”

  “Not anymore. He shot himself in the head.” I filled in the rest.

  My father looked astonished. “Why would he kill himself? Why give you those warnings?”

  “The fact that he’d face kidnap charges, assault with a deadly weapon, and a bunch of other charges might seem like a believable reason for killing himself. But other than that, I really have no idea, and neither do the investigators. Do you?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “Lusk could have left that envelope on my seat.”

  “Why? What would be his motive?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Kath, I have absolutely no idea. All I know is that I’m floundering here trying to figure out why anyone would leave the note and that this is becoming absurd.”

  “Absurd, really?”

  He slapped the photographs angrily onto the desk. “Because it’s a lie, Kath. A total lie. I never laid a finger on your mother. Never. Never harmed a hair on her head. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would ever tolerate that. And you know it.”

  He was right about that. But I didn’t budge. “The police seemed to ask you a lot of questions back then. They seemed to focus on you.”

  “They asked everyone who was at your wedding a lot of questions. I answered them honestly. If they’d had any real suspicions, don’t you think they would have pursued them?”

  “They found no proof. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t do it.”

  “Look, I’m guilty for making the wrong decision. The ambush was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m ashamed. And I live with that shame and sorrow and guilt every day. But I’m not a thief. And I’m not a killer. I didn’t kill your mother.”

  I looked at him, saying nothing. He held my stare, unflinching, a look on his face as if the subject or the accusation was painful. I was beginning to feel I was on shaky ground.

  “You really don’t get it, do you, Kath?”

  “Get what?
”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “You lied about what happened to Kyle. You kept that truth from me.”

  “For God’s sake, that was need-to-know. The Army deemed it classified. Besides, I told you, I didn’t need to sully Jack’s name. Didn’t need to make it harder on you. Call it a lie if you want, but it was a white lie, to protect you. This is insane, Kath. Some crazy, suicidal vet with PTSD leaves a note . . .”

  “I didn’t say it was him. I don’t know who left it.”

  I saw small beads of sweat glisten on my father’s brow. “Whoever wrote those words is lying, Kath. I don’t even know why anyone would want to make that accusation. Not unless they’re deranged.”

  He stared at me, full on. “As for the other photo, the one of me with that money, we all took photos like that, every officer I knew. It was in the provost’s office when that one was taken. You can check it out. There was maybe a hundred million dollars delivered on pallets that day. We all got our photos taken with it for a laugh. Guys were playing football with wads of it. It was just a joke. Look at me, I’m smiling. You think I’d let a photo like that be taken of me if I was stealing that money? You think I’m nuts?”

  He said it with such conviction, a powerful flicker igniting in his blue eyes, as if he was trying to will me to believe him.

  I wanted to. But somehow I just couldn’t manage it.

  Was the sweat on his brow a giveaway? Maybe. I glanced at the wall clock: 5:56. I had four minutes before Jack would call.

  “I need to be alone right now. Can you leave me alone? Go somewhere, anywhere, but leave me here in peace.”

  “Kath . . .”

  My father seemed reluctant to go. I could see it in his face. He wanted to stay, to talk it out more. So did I. It was all so inconclusive, so many questions unanswered. But I needed to hear from Jack first—and to see my children. That was more important right now.

  “Please. I need to be on my own. That’s what I feel. Please respect that.”

  He sighed, gave a reluctant nod. “We’ll talk again. About your mom. About Red Rock. I’ll answer any questions you want to ask. But you really do need to believe me, Kath. I never harmed her, let alone killed her. I loved your mom. You know that.”

  The truth was, I did know it. “Why did she write that word Red on the letter?”

  He faltered, sighed, seemed to find it difficult to speak. “Kath, sometimes . . . sometimes the past just needs to stay in the past.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s something more to all this than you know. But like I say, let’s talk again.”

  I really wanted to talk now. Desperately. Let him tell me everything he wanted to. But I had maybe two minutes before Jack’s call.

  My father moved to the door. Bleached, washed-out blue eyes regarded me with . . . what? Sadness? Resignation of some kind? Or maybe he was just looking for my pity. I couldn’t tell. And right then, I’m not sure I cared.

  “Jack’s mental state wasn’t exactly first-rate back then. We both know that. But that’s not really important. What matters is that we find them, Kath. Find Jack, Sean, and Amy. That’s all that matters.” He reached out a hand to touch my face.

  I turned my face away.

  “Kath . . .”

  A voice inside my head was saying, Until this is cleared up, I don’t want you to touch me. Or come near me.

  I saw the shock and sadness in his eyes. And I saw a single tear trickle down his cheek. My father, the six-foot-three colonel, was crying. He just stood there, tears rolling down his face, but not moving, like a rock.

  I wanted to cry, too. But I couldn’t.

  I knew he loved me. I just didn’t know if I still loved him. It wasn’t the same. It just wasn’t. Something had changed between us.

  And I wondered if it would ever be right again.

  “I’ve got some things I need to think about. Please, I want you to go right now.” I emphasized “now.”

  He looked at me with wet eyes and nodded. “If you hear anything, anything at all, about Jack and the children, I want you to call me at once. You hear?”

  I nodded back.

  He turned, and I heard him move down the hall and open the front door. A few moments after it closed, I heard his car start up and drive away.

  On the kitchen table, my cell phone started to ring.

  If Jack had told me the truth earlier, he was about to spill everything.

  63

  * * *

  I raced into the kitchen and grabbed my cell phone.

  “Hey, how are you doing?”

  It was Courtney.

  I didn’t feel like talking, my mind totally focused on Jack’s call.

  “Courtney . . . I’m waiting for a call to come through. Can I call you back?”

  “Sure. I just wanted you to know we’re working away on some leads. I wanted to make sure you were all right, honey. Are you?”

  Right then, I felt like collapsing. No, I’m not all right. I feel like I’m ready to crack up. But all I said was, “I’m doing OK.”

  Silence from the other end, as if Courtney had something else to say but was holding back.

  My mind started to race. “Is . . . is everything OK? Is there something you need to tell me? Did . . . did you find more evidence?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “What is it, Courtney?”

  “I don’t know. Or maybe I guess I just don’t know how to say this.”

  “Say what?”

  “I was thinking a little while ago . . . it came across my mind today . . .”

  “What?”

  “That stuff that happened between your old man and me, that night when you found us. I thought it had gone away.”

  “What . . . what about it?”

  “It’s been bugging me. I’d like to talk some more about that. Clear the air.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not on the phone, honey. I’d rather talk in person.”

  What did she mean? I wanted to know, but I was also conscious of the ticking clock and Jack about to call. Right that second, another call rang in. An unlisted number. It continued to ring.

  “Courtney, I have to take this. We’ll talk again.”

  “Sure. Just take care, OK? Love you, honey.” Courtney clicked off.

  I hit the answer button for the other call, but when I put my ear to the phone, I heard only silence at the other end.

  I waited.

  I didn’t want to say Jack’s name and alert Tanner in case he was the one calling. The silence went on forever. Finally, I said, “Hello.”

  “Take a look out your window.”

  “What?”

  ”You heard me. Look. What do you see?”

  I peered out. Beyond the trees, I could make out the shapes and colors of police cars and TV vans. My heart plummeted, my gut instinct telling me what was coming. “Jack, just listen . . .”

  “You broke your promise.”

  I recognized the voice, my heart thudding. “No, Jack . . . I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. You broke it. The cops are crawling all over your neighborhood.”

  “How did you know?”

  “How do you think? You think I’m an idiot? I did a drive-by.”

  The thought that Jack had driven by my home creeped me out, but the tone of his voice was even more troubling. “Jack, it’s not my fault. The police are here because there was an intruder.”

  “Liar.”

  “Jack, just listen, please. There was an intruder—”

  “I told you, no cops, no matter what. No authorities. You were to keep them at arm’s length.”

  I tried to speak, but he cut right across me, and I heard the vehemence in his voice and the words I dreaded.


  “You broke your promise. The deal’s off.”

  “Jack, please—”

  “We’re not going to meet.”

  “Then if not today, when?”

  “Never. Good-bye, Kath.”

  And the line clicked.

  64

  * * *

  Washington, D.C.

  The man drove his gleaming white GM Denali toward Alexandria.

  Out past the Pentagon toward the Leesburg Pike, until he reached Bailey’s Crossroads. He knew that some people called this area Little Arabia. So many residents settled here from Iraq and from Iran, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt. He had no idea why—birds of a feather, maybe.

  Rug shops flashed by, chain stores and ethnic restaurants, the streets thronged with Middle Eastern faces, some of the women dressed in chadors, their men dark and swarthy, many sporting black leather jackets and holding on to the hands of their handsome, brown-eyed children.

  He passed a restaurant called the Mount of Olives, then swung off the highway until he came to a run-down, deserted parking lot. The gates were open, the chain unlocked, deliberately.

  The lot was shabby, peppered with potholes, but the view was stupendous. In the distance, you could see the White House and the Washington Monument and the reflecting pool, all lit up. The lights of aircraft as they descended into nearby Ronald Reagan Airport, perilously close to the White House. The city was a sea of lights. You could almost smell the power from up here, and it was intoxicating.

  He parked and switched off the engine, saw the man standing on the parapet overlooking the city. He faced toward the Pentagon, and he didn’t look around as the man got out of the Denali and went to join him.

  Tarik was lighting a slim cigar and staring at the Pentagon. The lighter flared, illuminating his face. He wore a padded Windbreaker to keep out the evening’s chill, but he still managed to look like an undertaker, with his pencil mustache.

  “You’re late,” Tarik said.