Honor (32 page)

By the fifth page on Google, he came across an unflattering article from years ago on the company that would become SKC. He glanced at the reporter’s byline and then at the thumbnail photo.

Linc hooted. Gary Baum had written it.

So that was what he looked like before he got bitter and cynical. Baum must have been right out of college then. Eager. Young. So young that Linc could picture him with freckles and a bowtie, holding his journalism degree rolled up with a red ribbon. Ready to go forth and fight injustice.

Linc was chuckling when he picked up his cell phone. He tapped Gary Baum’s number, listening to the ring.

Could be an easy way to get more information on Lee Slattery and a couple of the names he remembered from his tour of the factory. If Gary had kept his notes.

Gary answered and said hello in a surly voice.

“Hey. Linc here. How are you, Gary?”

The reporter seemed taken aback by the warm greeting. “Fine. You?”

“Bet you’re wondering why I called,” Linc began.

“I’m not giving the money back.”

“That’s the last thing on my mind,” Linc assured him. Not strictly true—he’d just checked his bank balance, surprised by the precipitous drop in available funds once all the checks cleared.

“So what can I do for you?” Baum asked in a slightly less nasty voice.

“Well, I just happened to come across your name online. You wrote an article about SKC. A colossus in the making, you called it.”

There was a pause.

“That was a thousand years ago,” Baum said.

“Doesn’t matter. I thought it was very well-written,” Linc said. “Seriously.”

Gary gave a snort. “It was all right. Not my best.” He paused again. “So why were you interested in it?”

“I’m getting to that. There’s a connection to—”

“The accident,” Gary crowed. “You know, once you paid me all that dough, I really started thinking. The station researcher happened to mention that the girl in the wreck worked for SKC. So let me take a wild guess. She was having an affair with the smooth talker, the big boss with the silver hair. Lee. Right so far?”

“No.”

The reporter was on a roll. “I bet it gets worse. Lee didn’t want wifey to know and there was an argument. Her parents hired you and you’re looking to take Slattery down. Am I warm? Am I hot?”

“Not even lukewarm.”

Gary Baum swore, very creatively. “So enlighten me.”

“I can’t tell you that much. Actually, I’d like to interview you for a change.”

The reporter cackled. “That’s a switch. Okay, the motel again?”

“Come on over.”

“Just because I have nothing else to do, I will. You don’t even have to pay me for my valuable time.”

“See you.” Linc rolled his eyes as he hung up.

Gary arrived about an hour later with a file folder under his arms. He held it out. “Clippings. That’s how long ago it was.”

He walked to the table Linc had turned into a desk, glancing—not idly—at the open laptop.

Linc was ahead of him. He’d set the screensaver to a happy fish swimming around, followed by a lady fish with pouty lips who bumped his fin and gave him a big fat fishy kiss.

“I like your aquarium,” Baum commented.

“Thanks. So what’s in the file?”

Gary pushed the laptop to the back of the table and opened it. “First draft to the last. Notes. Some photos they didn’t run. Knock yourself out.”

Linc sat down and indicated that Gary should do the same.

“That’s Slattery,” Linc said. “Not quite so silver.”

“Correct. I’m surprised I remember those guys as well as I do.”

“I just met them myself,” Linc said. He intended to keep his comments on the safe side.

Gary flipped through a few pages and photos that were jumbled together. “I bet Lee Slattery hasn’t changed much. The Great Introducer, right?”

“He was a glad-hander, no doubt about it.”

“The other guy, Vic Kehoe, had just joined. He was ex-army, if I remember right. Or ex-something-like-the-army.”

Linc looked more closely at the picture. “I met him. I thought he was military.” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“No big surprise. A lot of execs like him and Lee are. Even though a lot of their products are outsourced. These days, military supply is like any other business.”

Linc let him talk.

“I mean, there are plenty of reputable companies,” Gary conceded. “They have, like, a mission. Quality is a big deal to the best of them.”

“What about the rest?”

“Look, there are a few operating on the cheap in countries where laws are a joke. Ship it back and sell it for top dollar to Uncle Sam. Just so long as you stay within a procurement budget, everyone’s happy.”

“So are you saying that’s how SKC got started?”

“They cut a few corners. Rumors were flying about kickbacks, internal corruption—there was an investigation.”

“Police? Federal?”

Gary snorted with contempt. “In-house. Slattery got it hushed up fast—apparently the corruption was high up. As I remember, a couple of execs got the boot and that Kehoe guy took over for them.”

“Do you mean he took over where they left off?”

The reporter chuckled. “Two sides to that question, aren’t there?”

“Maybe.”

“I couldn’t say. Their black-ops materiel support was what put them on the map. Slattery and Kehoe both got rich.”

“How rich?”

“Very,” Gary said. “That’s a booming business. Mobile prisons—they invented those. Bring ’em in to remote locales by helicopter, take them out the same way. That’s how they got started. Or that was the scuttlebutt, anyway.”

“Interesting.”

The reporter nodded. “Kehoe had the know-how and he hired out as a consultant. Still does, I guess.”

“How about Slattery?”

“He liked to hint that he hung out with tough guys who got the job done and to hell with due process.”

“I didn’t get that impression.”

Gary Baum snorted. “Mr. Chamber of Congress never met a colonel he didn’t like. SKC’s been awarded one fat contract after another. About the only thing they don’t make is guns and ammo. Everything else, oh yeah. Corned beef hash to chemical toilets. One-stop shopping for all your army needs.”

“Didn’t they just start making body armor?”

The reporter gave him a shrewd look. “You asking me or telling me?”

“Asking.”

“I heard that they were, yeah. Sounds like their kind of deal. Let’s say sixty thousand units at eight hundred per—what is that?”

“About five million.”

“And that would be only one order.” He sighed, gathering up his papers. “I don’t know why I thought journalism school was a good idea.”

“So,” Linc began, “do you have negatives for these photos?”

“No. They’re digital.”

“Even better.”

“Want a disc?” Gary asked quickly.

“How much is it going to cost me?”

Gary grinned. “Not a cent.” He looked through the material in the file. “There’s a couple in here. Aha.”

He pulled out a square envelope with a silver disc inside and handed it over.

“One for you and one for me.”

“Thanks.”

Gary scowled at the photo of Lee Slattery. “I can’t stand that guy. I was in the running for a byline at a national paper, and he called the owner, told him that he thought I was, quote unquote, a weasel.”

“Really.”

“That was the end of that job. And that’s how I ended up covering the blood-and-guts beat for W-K-R-A-S-H.”

Linc didn’t think that was the name of the TV station, but it was close enough.

“You can have his picture for nothing. And I’ll throw in the other guys as a bonus. If you don’t mind my asking, what did Lee Slattery do to you?”

Linc only shrugged. “I hardly know the guy. I just needed more info on his background for my, uh, client.”

“I see,” Gary said. “Clear as mud. But I don’t care.” He closed the folder and shoved it over to Linc. “You can have my notes too.”

“No charge?”

“Nope. Maybe I’ll need a favor someday.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

C
HAPTER
16

C
hristine’s new laptop was on her bed, resting on a book. The Corellis felt the same way as Kenzie about the old one: that it was somehow tainted. They’d bought a pearl-white model that looked like the first, except that it had no stickers. Kenzie had stopped at the dime store to pick up a few packets, but Christine didn’t seem interested.

Right now she was on Facebook, scrolling through messages from friends.

“Wow. Look at my wall. Hundreds of get-wells and luv-yoos and hang-in-theres. I can’t answer them all.”

“You don’t have to. Your mom posted daily updates from the beginning.”

“I guess I wasn’t ready for visitors. I’m still not,” Christine said.

Kenzie nodded. Christine had more good days than bad, but neither was predictable. “That’s up to you. Neuro rehab is no party.”

Christine laughed a little. “My therapist says it’s a challenge. If I get any more challenged, I’m going to run away.”

“You’ll get through it. One day at a time.” Kenzie took out the shopping bag from the dime store and pulled out skeins of yarn and two thick plastic needles. She cast on a row and added several more before Christine noticed.

“I didn’t know you could knit.”

Kenzie smiled. “Just the basics.”

“Are you making a potholder?”

Kenzie held up the rows with the knitting needles. “I’m hoping it will turn into a scarf. Give me a year.”

“When did you learn?”

“In Germany. A buddy had some extra yarn and needles. She was really good—she could do Fair Isle patterns.”

“Oh. I had a Fair Isle sweater once.” Christine smiled again. “Somehow I never pictured you knitting.”

“You know, it calms me down,” Kenzie said. “Oops. Dropped a stitch.” She picked it up. “I don’t even care when I make mistakes.”

Christine glanced outside, distracted by a group of men in the courtyard. They wore coveralls and carried buckets. One pushed a round contraption that held squeegees and, Kenzie figured, the cleaning solution. Another dragged a very long hose.

Kenzie went back to her knitting. “The windows could use a wash.”

She’d seen them unloading their van when she arrived. The window cleaners had been moving from building to building in the rehab complex.

“Guess we’re last,” Christine said. She returned to her Facebook session.

It was another hour before the cleaners set up outside their window. They sloshed detergent-laden water over the glass before they got to work.

Christine looked on, absorbed in the rhythmic motions of the squeegees mounted on long, flexible poles. She still did fall into short trances now and then.

Kenzie found herself doing almost the same thing. “It’s almost like being in a carwash.”

Christine giggled. “I know what you mean. Hey, I just remembered something. Frank kissed me in a carwash once. He said he didn’t want anyone to see. It was a great kiss.”

Kenzie dropped another stitch and didn’t bother to pick it up. Christine turned back to the laptop as the cleaners wiped off the dirty water with practiced strokes, leaving the window sparkling clean. They set down their gear and headed back for the van.

“That was so nice of you and Mom to make that slide show for me,” Christine said. “Frank was in it, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She steeled herself for the next question, putting down her knitting.

Christine hummed as she scrolled through photos. Kenzie didn’t know if she was looking at the slide show or Facebook pages.

“There’s Frank,” Christine said happily. “In his new bulletproof vest. He looks proud. Did you know I took that picture of him?”

“No.” That particular photo was on Facebook. Kenzie dreaded what was next.

Kenzie hadn’t touched a computer for months after Dan Fuller’s death in Afghanistan, not wanting to see his smile or read the kind tributes. His parents and his stateside friends hadn’t known who she was.

It didn’t take Christine long to find the memorial page. Kenzie saw her eyes widen and fill with tears. “What?” The single word was a painful whisper. “Those are—his boots. And his rifle and his tags. That’s a battlefield cross.”

Kenzie bit her lip as Christine pushed the laptop violently away. She rocked back and forth, hard. Her mouth opened but not a sound came out. When Kenzie rose to go to her, she waved her off.

“Stay away from me.”

“Christine—”

“He’s dead. I didn’t know. No one told me.”

“We couldn’t,” Kenzie whispered. “We just couldn’t.”

Her friend curled into a ball around a pillow and hid her face, racked with grief. Kenzie stood there. There was nothing she could do.

Outside the room, the ebb and flow of the center’s afternoon routine continued. Kenzie went to the door and closed it most of the way. If she’d shut it completely, someone on staff would have come in.

It was dusk when Christine stopped crying. Kenzie sat on the edge of the bed and touched her shoulder. Christine didn’t shrug off her hand, reaching out instead to cover it with her own.

“I know you couldn’t tell me,” she said softly. “I just wish—I never got a chance to say good-bye.”

“No one did. It happened very suddenly.”

“Tell me how,” Christine said in an almost inaudible voice. “Tell me everything.”

Kenzie didn’t. But she told Christine what little she knew about the firefight and about his buddies risking their lives to try and save him. She told her about the medic who’d been with him at the end.

“Where is he buried?”

Kenzie told her that too. “There’s no tombstone yet. But his grave has a marker. I visited the cemetery when you were in the hospital. I told him that I was there for you and me—and that you would come soon.”

“I want to go.” Christine’s voice was low and raw. She sat up.

“We’ll go together,” Kenzie whispered.

The two friends held each other until the sky outside the window darkened into night.

C
HAPTER
17

L
inc was waiting outside the rehab center in response to her text. Kenzie gave him a wan smile as she opened her door and slipped into the front seat.