The Last Hour (44 page)

When I woke up, the summer sunshine poured through our bedroom window. But five seconds later I remembered.

Martin was dead. Suicide.

We’re not getting together for shit, Sherman. You fucked us all
.

His voice was a mass inside my head, clouding my thoughts and emotions with darkness. I rolled over in the bed. Carrie wasn’t in here. I’d had some seriously disturbing dreams all night ... Dega Payan, all mixed in with the investigation and crazy scenes of Colton losing his mind.
 

I didn’t know before the hearing that Martin had caught Colton drinking. He wasn’t the only one.
 

About a week and a half after Roberts and Kowalski were killed and Dylan injured, I’d stopped in Colton’s office at the base camp. It was pretty late at night, and I’d been worried about him. I found him that night, sitting on a makeshift chair, his eyes glued to a computer screen in the darkness. With the light of the computer screen, I could just make out his pistol, sitting on the desk next to the computer. A magazine was in the hilt, but I couldn’t tell if it was loaded.

“Hey Sarge,” I had said, quietly.
 

“Sherman,” he replied, his voice low, slurring. That’s when I saw the bottle. Whiskey. The smell cut through the air and made my mouth water.

“You doing okay? Been awful quiet the last few days.”

“Working on a letter to Roberts’ wife.”

“How’s that coming?” I asked, eyeing the pistol.

“Could be better,” he replied. “Sometimes, Sherman, I catch myself wondering what the fucking point is.”

I slid down the wall, studying him. I could see the computer from this position. He had Roberts’ Facebook page up. Beautiful picture of Roberts and his wife was up on the screen. Roberts in his dress blues, his wife in a white dress. Wedding photo. They both had huge smiles, and she was staring up at him like he was the second coming. He was a huge guy, truly massive, and his wife barely came up to his name-tag.

I nodded toward the picture. “The point’s to preserve moments like that. Somebody’s gotta do this job so there’s a chance for that to happen to everyone.”

Colton snorted. “Roberts was a sanctimonious prick. He insisted on praying with me when we got back to the camp after Kowalski was killed. I’d probably still be on my knees next to him if Paris hadn’t fucked up and gotten us sent back out into the field.”

I leaned forward and said, “Sarge, it’s not your fault, just for the record. Just bad fucking luck.”

Colton picked up the pistol, and my heart almost stopped. Then he ejected the clip, setting it on the desk, and cleared the chamber. He raised his eyebrows, and met my eyes, then slid the now unloaded pistol into his holster. “Yeah, kid, I know that.”

I had breathed in a sigh of relief and slid back up the wall.

“Don’t forget it, Sarge. We need you.”

He had nodded and waved me off. As I had left the office, he called out, “Sherman!”
 

I had turned back, and he had said, “Thanks.”

One thing always leads to another, and not all outcomes are good. Was that kid, Speedy, dead because I talked to Colton that night? Was Martin? How did you trace back the chains of responsibility to a point where you could pin it down completely? I didn’t know the answer to that. I felt like Afghanistan was reaching out and slowly destroying our lives, those of us who made it out of there alive. Would it have been different if I hadn’t reported Colton? Was Martin right?
 

This is going to sound crazy, but I was actually angry that sunlight was shining in my window. It ought to be raining or cold, night, darkness.
 

I was going nuts. I slid out of the bed. Fuck. Still wearing my uniform. Whatever. I padded out of the room in my socks in search of a drink, walking straight into the kitchen. Carrie had put on coffee. But what I really wanted was about fifty beers.

She didn’t deserve that, though. So I started to pour myself a cup of coffee, and then saw Dylan Paris out of the corner of my eye. What the fuck? I love Paris. Short of Carrie, he’s my best friend in the world. But seriously. Did she think I was going to kill myself?
 

My eyes narrowed, and I said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too, Sherman. You look like crap.”

“I feel like crap.”

“You slept in that uniform, didn’t you?”

“Couldn’t find my damn pajamas. Let me get some coffee, for fuck’s sake.”

“Just bring the whole pot. We’re in the living room. It’s almost like sitting on the porch now, since you guys added ventilation to the room.”

I closed my eyes and suppressed a laugh. “God, you’re an asshole, Paris.”

So I grabbed the coffee pot, and Dylan got four mugs, and we moved into the living room. Alex was sitting next to Carrie on the couch, and she was showing Carrie ... what the hell was that? Patterns? I slumped into one of the chairs, and poured myself a cup.
 

“They’re talking bridesmaid dresses,” Dylan said. “Thank God you woke up, I thought I was going to die of boredom.”

A throw pillow went flying across the room from Alex and hit Dylan in the head. He chuckled.

I eyed Carrie, and asked Dylan, “How come your girl just throws pillows?”

Carrie froze in place, and gave a bark-like laugh, then said, “I’ll get you for that, Ray Sherman.”

And somehow it was okay. We didn’t need a whole lot of talk and psychobabble. Carrie did just the right thing. She reminded me—with one simple visit from my best friend and the girl he loved—of why it all mattered.

Carrie and Alex went back to looking at patterns or colors or dresses or whatever the hell it was, and Dylan waved me toward the porch. Carefully, we navigated through the broken door and stood at the edge of the porch clutching our coffee cups. Mid-morning Saturday traffic crowded Wisconsin Avenue far below us. I lit a cigarette, then sipped my coffee and soaked in the sunshine.

“When did you guys get in?”

“We took an overnighter, got into Union Station at 5 am.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So ... I take it Carrie called you last night after I fell to pieces?”

Dylan nodded.

“That’s not something I do often,” I said.
 

“I know it, Ray. But I’m worried about you. You’re going through the shit right now.”

I shrugged. “Not much to be done for it. But thank you for coming. I don’t know why but ... it makes a difference. A big one.”

He grinned. “It wasn’t hard to convince Alex. She wanted to corner Carrie about the wedding anyway. Apparently we’re way behind schedule on planning.”

“You still got, what, a few weeks?” I asked. “What’s to plan? You get some clothes, show up at the church, bam, you’re married.”

Dylan chuckled. “It’s more like a military operation, Ray. Lot of moving parts.”

He looked out at the sunshine. “Alex wants to go picnic on the Mall today.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, let’s do it, it’ll be fun.”

“She says she thinks you and Carrie are close to getting engaged. You thinking about it?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, we’ve talked about it. A lot. But ... I can’t really formally ask her. Not when I’m about to go to prison.”

He muttered a curse then lit another cigarette. “You aren’t going to prison.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m glad I’ve got you here to tell me these things, Paris. But my lawyer says it might be otherwise.”

He shook his head and said, “Well, I’ll visit you if you do.”

“Asshole.”

He grinned. “Seriously, Ray. You need anything, just call me. I mean it. Anything at all. All right?”

I clapped my hand on his shoulder and said, “I will.”

I’ve never been the type to brood over the little things. In high school I didn’t get into the silly give and take of relationships where you wondered over every little thing. None of this,
She called five minutes late, oh God she hates me,
for me. I’m straightforward. I do what has to be done, I take people at face value, and I don’t indulge much in regrets or worries or anxiety. I like to think of myself as pretty damn well-adjusted.

But how do you not brood over somebody committing suicide while you’re on the other end of the phone line? How do you not brood over a twelve-year-old kid nicknamed Speedy getting murdered? How do you not brood over it when your platoon sergeant, the guy you admire and respect and look up to for advice, turns around and tries to get you sent to prison to keep himself out?

It was hard for me to get my brain around all of it. And to be honest, it was even harder for me to talk about it. Dylan tended to spill his guts at the drop of his hat. In some ways I’d always admired that about him. But it’s not who I am. I’m not in the habit of confession or introspection. But right now? I needed to be able to dump some of this pressure and pain. The hell of it was I didn’t even know how.

I looked out at the traffic again and said, “I’m not so good at asking for help.”

“Sometimes you have to,” Dylan said. “You’re the one who taught me that.”

I sighed. “Yeah. It’s true. Well ... here’s the deal. I’m scared shitless, friend. I’m scared I’m going to end up in prison. I’m scared I’m going to end up leaving Carrie all alone, and she’s one who would die before actually asking someone else for help. I worry about what will happen with her if I end up going away. She’s so self-sufficient, but ... she’s
too
self-sufficient. She needs to learn to take some help too, not just give it.”

Dylan looked back inside at the girls. Then he looked at me with a serious face, and said, “Nothing’s going to happen to you. But ... worst case ... we’ll be there for her.”

I nodded, sucking in a breath, and said, “Thanks.”

So we got the door repaired, and while we were at it, the mirror in the bathroom. And calling Alexandra and Dylan turned out to be just the right thing to do. We spent a wonderful weekend together, though we had to sneak out of the building through the loading dock in order to go anywhere, because the press was back in force after Martin’s suicide was reported.

Sunday afternoon we saw Alexandra and Dylan off at the train station, and then we took the metro back to Bethesda. On the train, Ray said, “I love that you’re into all the wedding stuff with Alex.”

I smiled. “When we get married, I want it to be perfect.”

Ray choked up, his voice rough when he said, “Me too.” And then he kissed me.
 

Monday morning we got up, Ray getting into uniform to report for duty at Walter Reed again. And I got ready too, because I’d had enough. It had been four weeks since I’d been suspended from NIH. I didn’t know what was going on with my research. I didn’t know what was going on with my assistants, and I didn’t know what was going on with the investigation. This was intolerable. So we drove together, and I parked in the NIH employee parking lot, and kissed Ray goodbye.
 

Then I turned to head back to work. I followed the crowd of incoming commuters into the building, then made my way up the elevator and down the hall to Moore’s office.

I could feel my heart pounding as I approached it. Everything I’d spent the last decade working for rested on this. And I was terrified. I took a deep breath to calm down and prepare myself, and that was when Lori Beckley almost walked into me.

“Carrie!” she said. “Are you back? I’m so happy!”

I grinned. “I wish ... actually I still haven’t heard the first word from Doctor Moore, and he hasn’t returned my calls, so I thought I would come in and talk with him. I just need to know what’s going on with the investigation.”

Lori said, “I haven’t heard anything at all.”

“I guess maybe they’re supposed to keep it confidential?”

She shrugged. “Normally this place leaks like a sieve. But Moore’s holding this one pretty close to the vest.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either, to be honest,” she said. “You should record your conversation.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

She frowned. “I don’t know.”

“I’m pretty sure it is in Maryland,” I said.

“Whatever,” she replied. “Just ... watch out. I don’t trust Moore.”

“Great,” I said. “I will, and thanks for the warning.”

“Good luck!” She headed into her office, and I walked further down the hall and knocked on Moore’s door.

“Come in!” he called.

He needed to get a window. I opened the door and said, “Good morning.”

Moore’s eyes widened. “Doctor Thompson! I’m so glad you came by. Come in, come in. What can I do for you?”

I was taken aback by his odd friendliness. Number one, it was out of character, and number two, he’d been ignoring my emails and phone calls.
 

“I hadn’t heard back from you regarding your investigation, and ... to be honest ... I really need to get back to work soon.”

He frowned. So much for the friendliness. “Well, these things do take time. We have to ... collect information ... ask people questions, that sort of thing. I assure you, we’ll be done in good time. Right now I’m waiting for Rice to complete their report.”

I blinked. “Are you saying you haven’t started yet?”

“Oh, well of course not. I’ve familiarized myself with the file, of course. But until Rice is finished with the lab notes from your research, there’s very little I can do. Plus ... it seemed from the news reports that you have ... other priorities right now.”

I had to tell myself to stay calm. Because his insufferable, arrogant face was perfectly straight as he said those last words.
 

I leaned forward and said, “I want to make clear that whatever is going on in my personal life isn’t really relevant in this context.”

“It may be, and it may not be, Carrie. But having the ... girlfriend ... or whatever you are ... of a war criminal in and out of the building, even while you’re under an ethics cloud ... it’s hardly the image NIH wants to project.”

“I did absolutely nothing to warrant any of this,” I said. “Nor, for that matter, did Ray.”