Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

Then the tide washed out again and he was standing there, dumbfounded, his hand empty, his son sobbing. His son, to whom he had never raised a hand in his life.

“Jake?” Eric’s voice came out cracked and raw. “Oh, God, son, I’m sorry-” He moved toward the door, but Jennifer was there, blocking him.

“Jake.” Her voice was calm. She never took her eyes off Eric. “Honey, I want you to get the big black duffel bag in your room, and your backpack, and get into my car. Can you do that, lovey?” Jake sniffled an assent and staggered off down the hallway.

“I need you to sit back down on the bed, Eric.”

He backed up blindly and collapsed onto the bed. Jen crossed to her closet, still keeping her eyes on him. She bent down, reaching behind her, and pulled out her overnight bag.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Right now, Jake and I are going to my sister’s. I’m going to contact you in a few days and let you know what I’ve decided to do.”

She didn’t put anything in the bag. He realized she had already packed. She had prepared for this. She was leaving him.

He lunged off the bed and grabbed her by the arm. “Jen. For God’s sake!”

She looked at his hand, wrapped around her forearm. Then she looked at him. “You can hurt me, Eric, but you can’t hurt me enough to make me leave my son in danger.”

He snatched his hand away, and a terrible sound broke out of his tight chest and aching throat. Jennifer backed away, one step, then another, and then she was gone; down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, out of his life.

He stood in the bedroom for a long time afterward. Then he wandered through the house, touching tabletops and pictures, stacking the books Jake had left behind. Finally, he went into the basement and unlocked the gun cabinet. He looked at his rifle and his.44 and the youth Remington he’d gotten Jake the Christmas before he deployed. He took out his Heckler & Koch 9 mm, his favorite for target practice, and he sat in the rocking chair by the television and rocked and rocked, holding the gun in his hands. He’d have to go back upstairs and unlock the ammo if he wanted to use it, of course. That was the right way to store guns. Not like the McNabbs, who had kept their firearms loaded. He thought about Tally McNabb, maybe feeling as bad as he was right now. All she had to do was take it out and pull the trigger. Permanent headache relief. He indulged in a little wouldn’t-they-be-sorry fantasy, but it kept breaking into the reality of Jake or Jennifer having to see him with his brains blown off. “Jesus, Eric,” he said to himself. “Teen drama, much?”

He was a grown-up. He was a grown-up who had screwed up unbelievably bad in almost every way there was, and he wasn’t going to get out of it with some grand fuck-you-world gesture. He locked the 9 mm back in the cabinet and trudged upstairs. Put on the rest of his uniform. One thing at a time. He had questions about Ellen Bain to figure out. Then, if he played his cards right, he’d have his job. Then he’d fix things with Jake. Then he’d get his wife back.

Get one thing right. Doesn’t matter if you have no idea how the rest of it will fall into place, or even if it will fall into place. It was just like his tour of duty. You take it one day at a time, one hour, sometimes one minute at a time, and that’s how you get through it.

He set his beret on his head and went off to do one thing right.

Eric parked as close to the hotel entrance as he could. He sat there for a while, hearing Jennifer saying, If you get caught you could face charges. You could lose your job . Hearing Will Ellis saying, Nobody gets left behind.

He got out of the car. Took the curving steps up to the wide cobblestone entryway, jammed with rich-looking retirees getting into Beemers or handing off the keys to the Mercedes to the valets. The parking guys were too busy to pay him any heed, but several guests stared at him. Curious, at first, because the resort was out of the pay grade of anybody lower than a full bird colonel. Then they got the look he had seen before. It was all sorts of warm and approving, like they had slapped a WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS magnet on their faces. God, he hated that look.

It was less annoying on the face of the perky blond desk clerk. Hotel receptionists always looked like they were grateful for your service. “May I help you?” the girl said.

“Yes, you can.” He tried to smile, but it felt off. “I’d like to speak to your human resources manager.”

Her expression grew guarded. “I’m afraid we’re not hiring at this time, but I can get you an application to fill out if you’d like.”

Eric flipped his reserve ID badge at her, fast enough to register, not so fast she could make out the details. “I’m with the military police. I need to ask a few questions about Tally McNabb.”

“Oh. Okay. Wait here, please.” She disappeared through the door behind reception. Popped out again not two minutes later. “Ms. Kirkwood will be right with you.”

Elaine Kirkwood, the Algonquin Wates HR director, had the softened skin of somebody’s mother and the assessing eyes of a card shark. She led Eric around the edge of the resort’s sprawling lobby, past the dark, leafy bar, into a side corridor punctuated by unmarked doors. She opened one and ushered him into a typical corporate space-copier, cubicles, and computers. Hermetically sealed windows displayed untouchable views of trees, mountains, sky. Several women’s heads popped up like woodchucks out of holes. Eric thought, not for the first time, that he’d rather take a bullet than have to work in an office.

Kirkwood continued on to an inner door. “This way.” She shut the door behind them, then sat at a desk that was almost as cluttered as the chief’s. He took one of the two chairs facing her. There was a large box of tissues within reach. For employees getting the ax, he supposed. “I don’t know if you’ve checked with them, Sergeant, but we’ve already given a statement to the local police.”

“I’m not here about her suicide.” He slid his pen and notebook out of his breast pocket.

“You’re not? What, then?”

“How long had she been working for BWI Opperman?”

Kirkwood raised her eyebrows as if to acknowledge his sidestepping her question. “Almost three months. She started on August first.”

“Can you tell me what, exactly, her job entailed?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Was she responsible for the accounting for the entire company?”

“Oh, no. We have an outside firm for that. Tally’s job was to keep the books for the special construction projects.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” He gave her a look that said, I’m slow.

“Oh, well, let’s see. Let me give you some history.” She held up three fingers. “There are three divisions of BWI Opperman.”

Not that slow, he wanted to say.

“The original division is the resort construction company. For its first twenty years, the company specialized in fulfillment. Building for others,” she said in response to his questioning expression. “About fifteen years ago, the company went vertical. Designing, building, and operating its own resorts. In the past few years, BWI Opperman has spun its expertise off into special projects that require single-team, clearing-to-cap construction.”

“Can you give me an example of that?”

“Well, the only contracts we’ve taken so far have been with the coalition forces in Iraq.”

Eric blinked. “There aren’t any resorts in Iraq. At least, not any that weren’t blown up.”

She smiled. “BWI Opperman was hired because of that vertical integration. We have earth movers and carpenters and electricians and roofers and anyone else you might require to turn a completely undeveloped piece of land into a school. Or a clinic. Or a mess hall. Anything that might be necessary. We’re one-stop shopping for the Provisional Authority’s building needs. All the American contractors are, as I understand it.”