A Missing Peace (17 page)

“I don't see how I can. I'd like to see what he has, though. He says my father was clasping it when he died.”

I shook my head. “I don't know. I didn't stick around that long. I'm sorry,” I whispered.

I regretted that since it happened. I ran as fast as I could, putting as much space between the Americans and me as possible, but as I ran away from him, no one ran to him. They were too busy fighting with each other. Yet, if I'd stayed, I might not have lived to tell the story of the lone American hero.

A terse silence passed between us because, truthfully, no words would ever make this right.

Images of loss ran through my head.
Ommy,
Abrahem… Caleb. The thought was so hard to bear that it knocked the wind out of me and left me gasping for air. Since the incident, this happened sometimes. I would freak out, and something pushed the air out of me. I had it under control by the time we moved to Texas, but the wounds had been reopened.

Without asking, Caleb knew what I was thinking. “It's going to be okay, M. We're all going to be okay. I'll make sure of it.”

“If they find out I'm here—”

“They won't.”

Caleb grabbed me, pulling me to him. He held me to his chest, cradling my head until the tension left, and we relaxed—both of us.

We ordered a pizza and watched pay per view. This façade of peace we had was like the calm after a sandstorm. Your pulse slowed down, because you were happy you survived, but the feeling that something was wrong never left. Not really, because things got buried. People got buried, and when the movie ended, when the pizza was gone, when tomorrow came, we would still have to deal with the aftermath of today.

Caleb's phone buzzed against the cherry coffee table. I caught him peak at the number out of the corner of his eye and grimace. He didn't turn his head to look at it, because he didn't want me to notice. Proof. There was no going back. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Caleb

Life was closing in on me. I told M I would revamp the project with its new design. I hadn't started yet. If she knew that, she would be more than willing to do the almost completed debate. But neither of us had the energy for something like that anymore, and I told her it was time for her to move past what happened to her. To do that, she had to quit focusing on her differences—
our
differences—but the truth was
I
needed to get past things as much as she did.

I was behind in everything. My homebound teacher came twice a week and smiled sympathetically when I told her I hadn't done my homework. It would catch up with me eventually.

A smarter man would admit he was in over his head with Collins, but I wasn't backing down. He left me another voicemail. I couldn't listen to it while Mirriam was here. She pretended to be fine, but she was terrified. I could see it in her eyes, in the stiffness of her shoulders, in the way her smile barely crossed her face. She had been through enough for one lifetime. I was going to protect her from anything I could.

I picked up the near empty bottle of Oxycontin and took two. Lately, this was the only way I could sleep.

An incessant screaming pulled me from my sleep. Must be the alarm clock. Time for Mrs. Withers to come, but my head was pounding. My eyes drooped so heavy with sleep that it hurt to open them. It had to be time to get up, but it felt like I hadn't slept at all.

When I looked at the clock, I realized I was right. It was three o'clock in the morning. Mirriam left a few hours ago. I listened to the voicemail from Collins instructing me to get my dad's belongings from Gade and let this pass. I took the pain pills and went back to bed.

I
had
barely slept. So why was the alarm going off?

Then I remembered putting my phone on loud in case my girl called. It was my screaming phone that so violently pulled me from sleep.

One missed call.

One new voicemail.

One new text.

It was probably M. She must have tried to text and then called when she couldn't get me. When I slid my finger down the screen to open what I'd missed, Mirriam's name wasn't displayed.

It was Gade.

I would put off dealing with him until tomorrow, but the text intrigued me.

Come now. It's all on my desk.

I had no idea what he was talking about¸ so of course I was interested. I played the voicemail.

Gade talked faster than I'd ever heard him. His words slurred together. He was drunk. That much was obvious. “You're right. I pulled the trigger. I should take responsibility. But I really was followin' orders, man. I'm sorry. I'm real sorry. I know I can't bring your dad back. I'm going to try to make it right. I talked to Collins. He's going to try to make you look crazy. I did what I could to help. It's all here. You should come, and bring the police.”

Bring the police? Why would I need the police? Did he think I was going to kick his ass again? Was he planning to attack me? It didn't sound that way from the message.

But something was wrong.

I was not showing up at his apartment at 3:00 a.m. with cops. He did need to pay for what he had done, but he could turn himself in tomorrow. I almost felt sorry for him. He'd thought he was following orders, but he knew not to shoot a kid or a soldier.

I had to get to his house. He sounded desperate, like he had lost his mind. For a second, I forgot about my crushed body, and I stood. It didn't take me long to remember. I'd never be able to walk it, and I couldn't drive.

I refused to involve Mirriam with this. She was in deep enough. I didn't know what else to do, so I called Josh, because he would do what Mirriam wouldn't. Drop me at the curb and let me handle this on my own.

“Are you serious? It's 3:00 a.m.”

“I need a ride.”

“At 3:00 a.m.? If you're hungry, cook. I'm not takin' your ass to Whataburger at 3:00 a.m.”

“No. It's an emergency. I need to get to Shiloh Street.”

He cleared his throat and when he spoke again the grogginess was gone from his voice. “Emergency? What happened?”

“I don't know, but I need you to get me as close to Gade's apartment as possible.”

“Miller, what's going on?”

“I think something is wrong with Gade. I can't say more.”

“Give me ten.”

We hadn't talked since the day I threw him and Matt out of my house, and he was my 3:00 a.m. call. Josh was a good friend. Still, I couldn't excuse the things he'd said.

Ten minutes later, Josh and I were in his truck driving down Shiloh Street. We were as close to Gade's complex as Josh could get me without pulling in the parking lot, which I told him not to do.

“You're leg is jacked up. Are you sure you're going to be okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to come in?”

“No.” I couldn't pull him into this.

“Are you sure you don't want me to go into the parking lot, so you don't have to walk much?”

“I'm fine. Thanks, man.” I opened the door then paused. “Hey, Josh if I need a ride back—”

“Call me.”

I nodded and was out the door.

I knocked on Gade's door. When he didn't answer, I pushed it open and saw a disaster. Things were strewn everywhere. “Gade?” He didn't answer. “Gade, are you all right?” No answer. “Gade?” I made my way to his desk. That was where he said he left everything out for me. I wasn't sure, but I thought by ‘everything' he meant my dad's things.

My stomach churned. For a minute, I thought the pizza was going to come up again. Gade lay on the floor clasping a handgun, a crimson puddle leaked from a hole in his head.

I couldn't breathe. My insides felt like they would drop out of me. My legs shook like Jello and I grasped the back of his chair with my hands, because if I hit the ground, I would have never been able to get myself back up.

Then it happened. I hurled. My puke splattered in Gade's face. That was when I realized I hadn't checked his pulse yet. There was a chance he could still be alive. Not a very good one. His chest wasn't moving, and I knew what the grey chunk on the floor a few feet behind his body was.

Bracing myself against the chair, I let out a scream as I leaned down to pick up his limp arm. This was useless, but I had to try. No pulse. It was confirmed.

In that moment, I learned what kind of person I really was. On the floor, lay a dead guy I'd known since I was ten years old, and my first thought was to get to my feet and find out what was so important on the desk.

An intricately engraved cross hanging from a golden chain rested on the desk. Next to it, a post-it read, “Your dad's.” I hadn't seen this cross before. I had no idea why my dad would be clutching it as he died, other than it was a cross, but my eyes watered as I closed my fist around it anyway. When I picked up the necklace, my hand bumped the computer mouse. The computer yawned like it was waking up. The black screen came to life and glowed blue. There was a YouTube video on the screen, but I could see it hadn't been posted yet. I clicked edit and let it play.

A poor quality shot of Gade's face filled the screen. He was dark from the nose down, either from the camera or the lighting. “This is it,” he said. “My last chance to tell the truth ‘cause I can't live like this anymore. With the blood on my hands. Before you write this off as the crazed ramblings of another young grunt with PTSD ask the guys that were there. I don't think they'd lie. Not after this.”

“Collins had his face in a bottle from the time we left Kuwait. We all tried not to notice, cause he's not a bad person. Life's hard in a war zone, but it's scary as hell to know the guy in charge is drunk and chasin' eighteen-year-old Iraqi tail. Collins ain't a bad guy. I need to make that clear. This wasn't his first tour, and some things you can't un-know.

“His orders became more and more questionable. It got to the point that half the guys were lookin' to Miller to confirm the captain's orders before they'd act.

“We responded to a call of a bomb threat at a local hospital in Baghdad. Collins ordered a girl killed. Not a woman—a girl. She was younger than me, and I was only nineteen. Miller tried to talk him out of it, but Collins insisted she was a terrorist. No one else thought so. She was just tryin' to claim her dad's body. When Collins wouldn't revoke the order to kill the girl, Miller grabbed her and shielded her with his body. I don't think he thought Collins would order the kill shot after that, but he did. He knew the risk, and he gave the order.

“I pulled the trigger. I killed Michael Miller. If I hadn't killed Miller, I would have killed a girl. A high school kid. I think that might have been worse. I don't know.

“Collins told us never to talk about how Miller died, and the next day we were given the official story. Enemy fire. But the blood is on my hands. I can't live like this anymore.”

Gade brought the gun to his head and instantly fell backward.

I clicked publish. Collins couldn't lie anymore. Now the world knew, and he would have to quit threatening my mom.

I pulled the necklace over my head and called the police. While I waited for them to arrive, I went into Gade's bathroom and found a towel to wipe my barf off his face.

Caleb

It was cold, but I left him there and waited in another room. I couldn't stand over his body any longer. As I waited, I wondered if the blood was on my hands now. If I had dropped this like they told me to, would Gade be alive? I didn't want him to die. Not really. I'd thought about killing him more than once, but all I really wanted was justice. My stomach sunk, because I knew this was not what my dad would have wanted.

The knob on the front door rattled, and two cops walked in, an old fat guy and a girl with blonde hair. I knew the girl. She was a senior my freshman year, but I couldn't remember her name.

“Caleb, you okay?” she asked.

“I'm fine.”

“Son, what went down here tonight?”

“He sent a text that he left some things on his desk for me and when I got here, he was dead.”

“Why did you come at three thirty?”

“He left a voicemail, too. It was obvious something was wrong.”

“What did he leave on his desk?”

“Just this.” I pulled up the cross around my neck, so he could see it.

“So you messed with the crime scene before you called us?”

“What crime scene? He killed himself. The only crime is the one he committed in Iraq.”

“What's that supposed to mean? You accusin' the dead of war crimes?”

“I'm not accusing him of anything. He openly admitted it. He shot himself in a YouTube video. He killed my dad.”

The old man shook his head. “Your dad was a good man.” This surprised me, because I didn't know this guy. It probably shouldn't have. It seemed like my dad knew everyone. Then he added, “He'd be turnin' in his grave if he could see this.”

“See what?”

“His boy messing with a crime scene.”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn't mess with any crime scene. I got this stupid necklace your wonder boy said my dad was holding when he died. I cleaned the puke out of his face, and I called the police.”

I left out the part about publishing the YouTube video because I was sure the old guy would look down on that. Say I was disrespecting the dead or something. Forget that he'd killed my dad.

“Why was there puke on his face?”

I hung my head, ashamed to admit it. “I threw up when I found him.”

He nodded. “Well, give me the necklace, and we'll look around.”

“I'm not giving you the necklace, and I watch enough SVU to know you need a warrant to take it off my body.” I had no idea if that was true, but I hoped it was.

“Son—”

“Johnson, it was his dad's,” the blonde interrupted.