by P. J. Tracy
“I know that. I’m sorry I kissed you.”
“I’m not.”
“I was kissing you goodbye, Sam. Just in case.” She covered her face, concealing whatever emotions were playing out there. “I didn’t want to leave you.”
“But you did. If you hadn’t, we probably wouldn’t be here.” He leaned across the table and touched her hand. “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“Sorry, but I like the sofa, you can’t have it.”
Sam took her into his arms. There was a brief resistance, then her body eased into his. He held her and felt a part of his heart tearing while another part mended. They’d gone deep into the dark together, but he could see a little light now and hoped she could, too.
Chapter Seventy-eight
SAM HAD NEVER EXPERIENCED A HOMECOMING like the one Mrs. Vivian Easton threw for him, not even after a year-long deployment overseas. She hadn’t cried, just clung to him for the longest time.
She’d finally released him and stepped aside to let Lee and Andy welcome him. Lee was as robust and jovial as ever, and civilian life hadn’t softened Andy one bit; he was as tanned and fit as he’d always been. There was strain in his face, though, and his eyes seemed hollow and haunted. War did that to you. But tonight, that grimness was temporarily suspended for everyone by a mother’s love, good friends, drinks by the pool, delicious food, Cuban cigars.
Their continuous, serpentine conversation flowed from topic to topic: Yuki, the events at the Hesse mansion, politics, warm memories, amusing military anecdotes, and life in general. Mental health never came up, but golf did, along with the neighbor’s Shih Tzu. It didn’t quite feel normal; nothing would for a while, but it felt good.
After an obscenely abundant, poolside meal of grilled steaks, Santa Barbara spot prawns, and spiny lobster, Vivian excused herself to check on dessert, leaving them to their post-gluttony snifters of cognac and cigars. An old boys’ club, enthusiastically sanctioned by a model military spouse who was undoubtedly sick to death of war stories.
“I’m goddamned sorry about Yukiko, son.” Lee took a long draw off his stubby Churchill, blowing a stream of chocolate-scented smoke over the pool. The surface reflected undulating, hypnotic shards of sunlight into the glossy leaves of the camellia trees. Sam felt himself melting into his mother’s sweet-smelling, garden dreamscape and the camaraderie and support of two men he loved and admired.
“And what you went through,” Andy added. “A hell of a thing, beyond belief. Sometimes nothing makes sense in this life.”
Sam sipped his cognac. “Here’s to hoping I can maintain an existence of mind-numbing boredom from now on.”
Lee put his hand on his shoulder. “I wish you peace, never boredom.”
“Better yet. Andy, are you really going for Congress? That won’t be peaceful or boring, but it will be frustrating as hell.”
“Well, like I said, we’re just forming an exploratory committee right now, but I’m passionate about my platform and policy ideas. First and foremost is the undeniable fact that some things need to change in Veterans Affairs. A lot of good men and women are being forgotten. The homeless crisis is unacceptable.” He leaned forward, braced his muscular arms on the table. “Sam, you take care of business, do what you need to do, but if things look good in the first straw polls, know you have a job waiting for you whenever and if ever you want it. It would be an honor to have you on board. Besides, we need a pretty face.”
“Then I’m your man.” Sam raised his glass with a smile, then settled back into the plump pillows on his chair. “Seriously, Andy, I appreciate that. Give me some time.”
“No question.”
“Maybe I’ll wait to see the polls, make sure I’m picking a winner.”
Andy and Lee guffawed, then the general ditched the stub of his cigar in a broad, cut crystal ashtray Sam hadn’t seen since his father’s death. “I’m going to see if Vivian needs any help and let you two youngsters talk about the future. I’ve got an amazing meal under my very large belt, and I can’t wait to see what she has planned for dessert.”
Sam listened to his mother and Lee laughing in the kitchen. It was a nice, happy sound, and maybe an indication that the two of them … but that wasn’t his business and not anything to think about unless a different kind of relationship between them formed, if it ever did. “Andy, I’m interested in the future, but I’m more interested in the past right now.”
“The memory problems aren’t improving?”
“Not really. I can’t recall anything from the time around the blast, so I’m trying to sort some things out. Tell me about Ronald Doerr. I’ve been having some really disturbing dreams about him.”
Andy cocked a brow at him and let out a loose wreath of smoke. “You really don’t remember?”
What did you see? What do you remember?
“I don’t remember shit, Andy. And the things I dream about, they’re warped, bizarre, not real. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Vivian, but my brain is scrambled and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back, so you might want to rethink that job offer.”
“I’m so sorry, Sam, I didn’t know it was that bad. But the job offer stands.”
“Fill in some blanks for me. All I know is that Rondo was killed in the convoy.”
Andy took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.
“What? He was killed in the convoy, right?”
“That’s what his record says.”
“But that’s not what you say?”
“I know he’s dead.”
“It’s not the same thing. Talk to me.”
He let out a heavy, burdened sigh. “It’s not a pretty story.”
“I’m not used to pretty stories.”
Chapter Seventy-nine
ANDY TWIRLED HIS CIGAR IN HIS fingers, then took a deep drink of cognac before he spoke. “Before the blast, Rondo was on his way to a psychiatric discharge.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Hence the schizophrenic Rondo of his dream. Sam didn’t remember him being particularly unstable, but his subconscious obviously had. “We all thought he was a jerk and a little squirrelly, but he was bad enough for a psych discharge?”
“At the end he was, he couldn’t cope. But that didn’t sit well with his father.”
“Colonel Doerr.”
“Right. But a loose cannon is a loose cannon, and they endanger everyone around them. We agreed to keep things quiet out of respect for the family, but the crazy son of a bitch lost it before it could go through.”
“What did he do?”
“You really don’t remember, ah, Jesus, I envy you that. He killed Raziq. The Afghan commander. Gutted him with his KA-BAR.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, but there were no witnesses.”
“Then why are you sure?”
“By the time the body was found, Rondo was AWOL. And he’d been coming to me regularly with complaints about Raziq. When his behavior got erratic and he started making threats against him, I put the discharge in motion.”
“Why the hell would he want to kill Raziq?”
Andy’s face darkened. “Because Raziq was raping little boys. He kept one chained to his bed. Maybe you remember this—in certain areas of the country, it’s a mark of social status among powerful men. It even has a name.”
Sam swallowed, and it felt like he’d just ingested one of his mother’s golf balls. He’d blocked it out. No wonder. But it had surfaced in his dream, you couldn’t hide forever. “Bacha bazi. Boy play.”
“Right. We were told not to intervene. The justification spiel we got from the brass was that it was just a part of the culture, a matter of domestic Afghan criminal law, no requirement that U.S. military personnel report it, ad nauseam. But the real truth is, we needed him. There’s always a reason to sleep with the devil in war, but it’s an outrage, and it’s going to be a part of my platform if I get that far. Might end
up with a court martial, might end up with a medal, but I don’t care. I’ll be able to live with myself. Frankly, it’s been hard.”
Sam drained his glass, which did nothing to tamp down the swirling dizziness he was feeling as jagged pieces of fantasy and reality collided. He understood now that his waking nightmares of Rondo had been fantastic, bent versions of repressed memories, working themselves out like infected splinters just as Dr. Frolich had suggested. She was probably going to need therapy herself after she was finished unraveling his mind.
Andy tipped his head curiously. “Are you starting to remember things now?”
“No, but I’m starting to understand some things. So what happened after Rondo killed Raziq and went AWOL?”
“We went looking for him. That was the convoy that almost got you killed, and got the others killed. We figured he’d fallen into Taliban hands.”
An unscheduled convoy, just like his dream Rondo and his buried memories had told him. “So he definitely wasn’t on it.”
“No.”
“But you found his dog tags. And his file says KIA.”
Andy lowered his eyes, looked into his nearly empty snifter, and gave it a few twirls as if the gesture would conjure a refill. “We’re both civilians now. This is friend to friend. What I say to you stays with you, okay?”
“Of course, Andy.”
“A lot of it is conjecture, and it’s going to sound pretty crazy.”
“Crazy is something I’m used to.”
“The investigators found Rondo’s dog tags. I never saw them. I’m sure you’re wondering how they got there. Or if they were ever there in the first place.”
“Christ, Andy, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that maybe the blast was a convenient solution to a vexing problem. Colonel Doerr is an ambitious, connected man with a five-generation military pedigree, in line for a general’s star. Better if your son is killed in action instead of being an AWOL psychiatric discharge who murdered an important military ally.”
Sam was so staggered, he couldn’t form any words for a moment. “Frame his own son’s death and leave him in the desert to die? That’s outrageous.”
“It is, but you don’t know Colonel Doerr. I do. He’s a death over dishonor guy. Best case scenario, Rondo was looking at life in prison—the death penalty if defense couldn’t argue a solid mental incompetency case. In my mind, it’s within the realm of possibility.”
“But the AWOL and the psych report were out there already, on record. Rondo was the obvious suspect for Raziq’s murder.”
“I filed my reports, truthful to the letter. After that, it went up the chain and was out of my hands. Along the way, things went missing. Like the AWOL and the psych report.”
Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Nobody can bury a murder.”
“Unless you have two interested parties with a lot at stake. A day after Raziq’s murder, the Afghan military released a statement saying it was the result of a personal grudge, conducted by one of his lieutenants. They had things to hide, too, like his taste for children. On our end, everything leading up to it suddenly got classified at the highest level in the interest of national security. Same thing with the blast investigation, including the forensics that would prove Rondo wasn’t on that convoy. I was gagged. Anybody who knew anything about it was, and frankly you and I are pretty much the only ones left alive who did.”
“Jesus Christ.” Sam pressed a palm against his forehead, trying to fend off the first serious headache he’d had since the night at Rolf’s.
What do you see? What do you remember?
Was the unrelenting voice of his dreams another repressed memory? An informal interrogation that had occurred when he was half-dead and out of his mind on painkillers and God knew what else at Walter Reed? “I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around any conspiracy, Andy, let alone one of this magnitude. It can’t be true, there’s another explanation.”
“Maybe I’m as crazy as Rondo was. The thing is, if you’ve been in-country long enough, you realize almost anything that happens there is a mirage—and if it’s not, it will be. And everything you ever believed in goes to shit. After that, anything can ride.”
“Were you threatened during the debriefing?”
He lowered his head. “If I’d pursued further action while serving, I would have been destroyed. They didn’t have to threaten me.”
Once again, Sam felt like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling away into a vast, bottomless chasm. “That’s why you left. And why you’re running for Congress.”
He nodded absently. “This has been killing me, Sam. I had to find a way to do some good. I fucking hate politics, but it can serve a greater purpose.”
“Does Lee know?”
“He’s been in Washington a long time. Field incidents don’t rise up to that high-water mark.”
“If you’re working with him, you need to tell him. He’s a good man, Andy, he can help you.”
“I don’t know if anybody can help me. I could use another drink, how about you?”
Sam found the bottle of Courvoisier in the outdoor bar cabinet and refilled their glasses. “I’ve always had a lot of respect for you, Andy.”
“Even now?”
“Even more now. You’ll find a way to do what’s right. I’m with you, and Lee will be, too, believe me on that. But tell me this, do you think Rondo could still be alive?”
“It’s not possible, Sam. He was a head case who fled with no supplies into a desert wasteland. If the climate didn’t kill him, the Taliban did. Kev, Shaggy, and Wilson—three good men—died for him, and you almost did, too. If I thought he was still alive, I’d hunt him down and kill him myself.”
* * *
After peach tart and coffee, Sam joined his mother in the kitchen while Lee dosed out the last of the Courvoisier. “Drink up, Captain. We have reason to celebrate. Our boy is going to get through this, too. I can’t say I’d be standing so tall.”
Andy watched Vivian behind the glass patio doors, putting her kitchen back together. Sam was trying to help, but she kept shooing him away. “He’s got good people behind him. Vivian is a force of nature, isn’t she?”
Lee chuckled and clipped a fresh cigar. “Anybody in her orbit is lucky to be there. What did you and Sam talk about while I was helping get your desserts on the table? It looked like an intense discussion.”
“He’s trying to put things together from the time around the blast. His memory is still shot.”
“That might not be such a bad thing.”
“We all deserve the truth.”
Lee fired a cigar. “The truth is a funny thing—we all want it, but we’re not always ready to hear the answers.”
Chapter Eighty
SAM PULLED THE SHELBY OVER TO the curb by Brookside Park near his childhood home and slid down in his seat, watching families and lovers, joggers and dog walkers pass by. Regular people with regular lives, but he knew they all had secrets, big or small, and he wondered what they were. He envied them because they knew their own secrets. Sam didn’t, didn’t even know if he had any. He hadn’t for two years.
He might never know what had really happened back in the desolate, ruined country of Afghanistan or satisfactorily fill in the blanks in the vast swath of mental wasteland residing in his skull. But he knew Andy wasn’t the violent, demented killer of Raziq that the schizophrenic Rondo specter had proclaimed him to be, and he trusted Andy more than his twisted dream.
Rondo was your subconscious. Why would your subconscious tell you Andy was Raziq’s murderer?
“Because I’m FUCKED UP,” he hissed, slamming his palms against the steering wheel. A few passers-by looked over their shoulders in alarm, and he sank deep into his seat, trying to disappear. He took deep breaths and wished he had that damned Maneki Neko cat sitting on his dashboard right now.
He tried to martial whatever remaining rational, cognitive brain cells he had, abandoning all psychoanalytical confusion.
What if Rondo hadn’t been a dream? What if he’d managed to survive the desert and the Taliban and somehow got himself back here under the radar by jumping the Mexican border? His mental derangement would never allow him to take responsibility for a murder, so he would project it onto someone else, an authority figure—somebody like Andy or his father—whom he’d also implicated as a villain. If Sam had learned anything in life, it was that you couldn’t discount any possible truth, no matter how improbable it seemed.
After some time spent watching a rumble between several elementary school soccer foes, he found Remy Beaudreau’s card in his wallet and called him. He answered on the second ring.
“Mr. Easton, how are you doing?”
“Surviving. It’s my default position.”
“And that of the entire human race, but ninety percent don’t realize it. What can I do for you?”
“The first thing you can do is promise me we’re not having this conversation.”
“We’re not having this conversation. The number you called is private.”
Sam closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat of the Mustang. “Ronald Doerr might still be alive. I just found out there may have been a mistake in his military record.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t tell you that. And please don’t pursue that angle. Give me your word, or we’re done here.”
No hesitation. “You have my word. I want to find my killer, not stir up any military scuttlebutt. You’re protecting a source, I get that and I’ll honor that. So you have more to say?”
“I don’t know if Doerr is the Monster, but it could make sense if he’s still alive.”
Silence, tapping on a keyboard. Finally: “Tell me how it could make sense.”
“He’s mentally ill. He probably gutted an Afghan official with a knife.”
More keyboard tapping. “Do you have any other specifics? Because it’s going to be hard to find somebody who’s dead on the books.”
Sam gritted his teeth. He didn’t know if any of the specifics he had were real or true. But if Rondo was alive and killing women because he thought they were military assassins, Beaudreau needed to know everything, real or not. Throw it into his lap and let him sort it all out. “I’m going out on a limb here, Detective. I’m trusting you.”