Home to Texas

by Kaki Warner

  “Yes, sir. I’m on my way to LRMC right now to interview Lieutenant Whitcomb again. The evidence so far indicates she shot Captain Farid in self-defense. But I’ll need to hear her account before I put anything in writing.”

  There was a pause, then Stranton said, “Go back through her file. Find something we can use. Something that’ll stick. This has to be old news by tomorrow.”

  Richard’s steps slowed. “Farid shot her in the back, Chief. The medical officer agrees he shot first and the lieutenant returned fire in self-defense.”

  No response.

  Coming to a dead stop, Richard chose his words carefully. “But you still feel she’s at fault, sir?”

  Stranton’s voice boomed through the cell phone. “I don’t care whose fault it is, Murdock! I’m saying both our asses are in the wringer here, so clean up this mess any way you can, whatever it takes! Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Richard said, and ended the call. Apparently, Stranton had forgotten about Richard’s leave or the chief would have thrown that at him, too. Asshole.

  CHAPTER 4

  Landstuhl Regional Medical Center

  Landstuhl, Germany

  Even though his head ached and his ears still rang from the seven-hour flight from Bagram, Richard tried to sound cheery when he walked into Lieutenant Whitcomb’s hospital room. “Afternoon, Lieutenant. You’re looking better.”

  Actually, she looked like death. Yet if he studied her hard enough, despite the dark circles around her eyes—brown or black, he couldn’t tell—and the pinched tightness of her mouth—pain, probably—and the rat’s nest in her brown hair, the beauty he hadn’t noticed when she’d been vomiting was obvious. With her delicate features and slight frame, she should never have made it in the army. Yet she had overcome the odds, graduating with a top rank from West Point then sailing through boot camp and officer training to earn her right to be a soldier. From everything he’d read in her service file, she was determined and committed, headed for the top. He hated that he might be the tool used to bring her down.

  He’d done a lot of thinking since he’d last spoken to her—about this case, his future, how far he might go to cover the army’s ass, and whether or not he’d be willing to ruin this soldier’s career to keep his job. Which would happen if he turned in the report Stranton wanted, regardless of the truth. Another reason for him to get out before he lost all respect for the army and himself.

  “Ready for a few questions?” he asked, anxious to get down to business.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  And totally lacking in enthusiasm, it seemed. No one liked being interrogated. He pulled his pen and yellow notepad out of the courier pouch, nodded toward the chair beside the bed, and asked if he could sit.

  “Suit yourself.”

  He sat. Hoping to put her more at ease, he said, “Again, I’m sorry about Captain Mouton. From everything I’ve heard, she was a fine officer.”

  “And friend,” she added, blinking hard.

  To give her a chance to pull herself together—he hated when they cried—Richard leafed through the notepad a bit. When he figured she’d had enough time, he started with, “When did Captain Mouton decide to go to Farid’s quarters? Start from the beginning and try not to leave anything out.”

  “We had just returned from a four-day patrol and were at mess,” she said, her voice stronger than when he’d first interviewed her. He picked up a hint of Texas twang, but softer and more refined than some he’d heard. It suited her. “COM radioed that two women were at the gate asking for her.”

  “That would be your interpreter, Samira, and a local woman?”

  “Yes. Azyan. I don’t know her last name.”

  Richard jotted that down. “And what did they say to the captain?”

  “That Farid had taken Azyan’s eight-year-old son and she wanted him back.”

  “Mouton agreed to go get him?”

  “Not after she learned it was the CO of the ANP who had taken him. She explained that we couldn’t interfere in local matters and asked why Azyan couldn’t get her son herself. Samira told us she’d tried but Farid had hit her. Azyan showed us cuts and bruises on her face and arms.”

  “And that’s when the captain decided to go to Farid’s?”

  “Not until Azyan told us why Farid had taken her son. For sex.” Disgust twisted Whitcomb’s features. Nice features, with a few freckles across the nose and cheeks, a wide mouth, and watchful, intelligent eyes. He wondered what her smile was like. “Captain Mouton made it clear she could only ask Farid to return the boy. If he refused, there was nothing more we could do.”

  Richard started a new page, and reminded himself to get more batteries for his recorder. “Did she order you to go with her?”

  “No.”

  “But you went anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  “Despite the noninterference policy.”

  A look came over her face that made her seem older, less vulnerable. And definitely not broken. “She was my captain. I had her back. That was my job.”

  Instead of responding, Richard sat quietly and waited. After two years with the 8th Psychological Operations Group and six with CID, he’d found that silence often worked better than questions to keep a conversation going.

  Which it did now. “Actually, she didn’t want me going,” Whitcomb finally admitted. “She knew the risks and didn’t want me to damage my career.”

  “So both of you knowingly disobeyed army policy.”

  Emotion flashed in her eyes. Brown eyes, he saw now, showing flecks of yellow when she was mad. She studied him for a long time, her mouth set, her hands fisted against the sheets. She gave off an impregnable aura of strength, as if showing weakness was the same as dying. Dr. Erickson was right; she might be small, but she was tough. Richard admired that.

  “I see where this is going, Warrant Officer Murdock.” She spoke calmly, precisely, every word carefully enunciated. “The army is worried about PR so they’ve sent you to find a way to spin it so Captain Mouton takes the blame.” She smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile and did nothing to bank the fire in those amazing eyes. “You’ll get no help from me. Captain Mouton was an excellent soldier. Honest, fair, courageous. And I will never let anyone paint her differently.”

  “I wasn’t trying to. I only want the truth.”

  “Oh, really? Then, here’s the truth. We went to Farid’s as a courtesy to a desperate mother. That’s why we’re in Afghanistan. To offer help to the Afghan women wherever, and however, we can. Captain Mouton had no intention of violating the DOD policy, and she didn’t order me to go with her. The only thing she asked of me was that we both wear headscarves to show respect.”

  Richard wrote furiously, intent on getting down every word. The woman should have been in JAG. She would have made a hell of a lawyer. When he’d finally finished, he shook a cramp out of his hand and looked up.

  The hard-faced resolve was gone, replaced by one of those looks women did so well—a cross between a smirk and bored impatience, one of those Why do I have to do all the thinking? looks. “Do you have a cell phone, Officer Murdock?”

  He blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Yes.”

  “Most of them have an app for that.”

  “For what?”

  “Notes, dictation, videoing conversations, or in your case, recording interrogations. You don’t have to write it all down. Your phone can do it for you.”

  “Really?” Playing along, he pulled out his cell, studied it, then looked innocently back at her. “Wow.” And there was that eye roll he’d expected.

  Richard didn’t much trust technology, but he did know how to use a phone. He just preferred to rely on hard copies, rather than battery-dependent cells or recorders. Plus, paper files were harder for him to lose since they all ended up in the same place. His duffle. He
wasn’t a total fucktard.

  “Let me make it easy for you,” she went on in a snarky tone. “Jot this down. Talk to Samira. She’ll verify my account of our conversation at the gate.”

  “I can’t.”

  Her expression changed again, alarm eroding the smirk. “Why not?”

  “Samira’s dead. Her body was found last night in the hills outside the FOB.”

  He said it harsher than he should have. She made a sound—part cry, part moan. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Then she did that vomiting thing again, and one of her machines started beeping, and nurses rushed into the room.

  And that was the end of the interview.

  He escaped as quickly as he could. With nowhere to go until his overnight flight to CENTCOM, he headed to the hospital cafeteria. Loading up a tray, he took it to a table near the windows. He was still unnerved by what had happened. And by KD Whitcomb. And especially his reaction to her. He shouldn’t have cared when she’d blown up at him. Or felt so relieved when she’d calmed back down. Or been so abrupt about Samira. This was no different from any other interrogation. Except for the vomiting. That had never happened before.

  He took a bite of chicken and looked out the window as he chewed. The woman was complicated. Truthful, but unpredictable. Fearless, even lying wounded in a hospital bed. And so beautiful, it made him forget why he was there. She was also probably on pain meds, he reminded himself. He doubted she’d remember much of the interview. But he sure as hell would.

  He took another bite of chicken and wished he’d been nicer. It disturbed him that every time they talked, she ended up vomiting. He’d try to do better next time.

  * * *

  * * *

  KD didn’t want it, but they gave her a sedative and another dose of the pain meds. Once they kicked in, she was able to stop crying, her stomach settled, and she finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Four hours later, she awoke to see another semiliquid dinner on the rolling table thing, and Warrant Officer Murdock dozing in the chair, head back, mouth open, long legs stretched past the end of the bed. His big hands were clasped over his belt and he was snoring. The picture of relaxation.

  She wanted to hit him. Wake him and ask him why he’d told her about Samira in such a cruel, heartless way. But she had known, even before he had said the words. The regret had shown on his face. He hadn’t liked telling her that Samira was dead any more than she’d liked hearing it.

  Another death, another loss. Soldiers were supposed to accept losing friends and brothers. Casualties of war. Maybe she wasn’t such a good soldier, after all.

  Blocking that thought, she studied the man in the chair.

  He wasn’t as old as she had originally thought. Early thirties, maybe. But she guessed in his job he had heard so many lies and seen so many terrible things it had prematurely aged him and put that weary, cynical look in his eyes. She hadn’t seen him smile and wondered if he found anything worth the effort. He might be more approachable if he did. Another casualty of war, the capacity for joy. That’s what she had admired most about Nataleah—her ability to bring a smile to those around her and make them feel a little less alone and afraid.

  Irritated at where her thoughts had taken her, KD reached to pull the rolling table with her dinner tray closer, and accidentally knocked the pink barf bowl off the nightstand. It was clean. But it landed on the floor with a clatter.

  “What?” Murdock jerked upright and looked around. When he saw her leaning over the side of the bed and the bowl upended on the floor, he bolted to his feet with such a look of horror, it was almost comical.

  “Are you sick again? Should I call the nurse? I’ll call the nurse.”

  “Don’t. I’m okay. I accidentally knocked it off when I reached for my dinner tray.” And even that simple effort had been exhausting. Fearing another bout of light-headedness, KD slumped back against the pillows. “I’m okay.”

  Warily, he picked up the bowl, saw it was clean and set it back on the nightstand, then positioned her rolling table so that it crossed her lap.

  He frowned at the items on the tray. “That’s all you get?”

  Unwilling to go into an explanation of postsurgical bowel function, she simply said, “For now,” and punched the button on her bed to raise the back so she could sit up. Which didn’t work as well as she’d hoped, since she’d slid down in her sleep so that the bend in the mattress hit just below her shoulder blades. She tried to scoot up, then inhaled sharply when a jolt of pain hit her back.

  “Here. Let me help.” And before she could stop him, he grabbed her under the arms and bodily lifted her higher. His hands were so big, his thumbs reached past her collarbones. Pain stole her breath away or she might have started shouting at him. Once he’d pulled the covers up, he pushed the edge of the table into her chest and stood back, a pleased look on his unshaven face. “Better?”

  “Much,” she gasped, terrified he might do something else to hurt her.

  He started to open her various juice and fruit containers, but when she saw his struggle with the tiny tabs on the seals, she feared those big hands would make a mess of it and she waved him away. “I can do that. Thanks anyway.”

  “Okay.” He looked around for something else to do, spotted the pink plastic water pitcher on the night stand, grabbed a paper cup, and started pouring. “Anything else?” he asked, spilling only a little of it when he put it on her tray.

  “You’ve done more than enough.”

  “Well. Okay, then. Feel up to a few more questions? I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”

  KD took a sip of lukewarm broth. “Get what over with? My career?” She said it as a joke, but he didn’t smile. Probably accustomed to being snarked at.

  He let out a deep breath and rested one of those farmer’s hands on the butt of the pistol holstered at his hip. She wondered how he got his big index finger through the trigger guard. “I’m not trying to jam you up, Lieutenant. I see no fault in what you did. But you were right in thinking CENTCOM is looking for a way to make this go away as soon as possible.”

  She moved on to the cranberry juice. “And they figure to use me?”

  “I already told them you killed Farid in self-defense.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Some might think you going to Farid’s was a violation of DOD policy.”

  She set the cup down so hard, juice sloshed over the side. “But I explained that. We went as a courtesy to a distraught mother.”

  “Let’s start there.” He sat, retrieved his notepad and pen from the courier pouch on the floor by his chair, turned to a fresh page, and said, “Whose idea was it to go? Yours, or the captain’s?”

  “The captain’s. But I backed her.” KD wiped the spilled juice from her fingers then slapped the napkin back onto the tray. “This is unbelievable! You know what Farid had planned for the kid, don’t you? An eight-year-old boy. It’s disgusting!”

  “If Mouton hadn’t already decided on going, would you have suggested it?”

  KD was the one who had made the biggest mistakes—not checking Farid for a weapon, not going back to the front room when the argument escalated to shouts. Why did he keep asking about Nataleah? “I’ll admit, I was worried about the policy of looking the other way in such matters. But Farid was an animal. He needed to be stopped. It was the moral thing to do.”

  Murdock wrote for a minute, then looked up and studied her, his blue eyes as cold as a November wind. “Can you think of a reason Captain Mouton might have been more motivated than most to stop him? Maybe something in her past that compelled her to save the boy?”

  It was an effort for KD to keep her voice even. “What are you implying?”

  “I heard rumors that she might have been abused herself. Could that have triggered her decision to go to Farid’s despite being told no
t to intervene?”

  Anger erupted. “She was a good soldier!”

  “I’m not disputing that.”

  “Then why are you trying to drag her reputation through the mud?” KD’s voice shook with fury. “I will never say anything against Captain Mouton! No matter what you throw at me!”

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Murdock slapped his pen down on the notepad. “Mouton doesn’t need you to defend her,” he said in a tight voice. “She did what she felt she had to do. I respect that. But now it’s time for you to do the right thing and tell the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth!”

  “Then try telling it with less emotion!”

  Sexist pig. KD pressed a hand against the throbbing in her side and reminded herself to stop shouting.

  A nurse came to the window, a worried look on her face.

  KD waved her away.

  Obviously trying to tamp down his own irritation, Murdock picked up his pen again and smoothed the page in his notepad. “If you’re ever called for an Article 32 hearing, Lieutenant Whitcomb,” he said with strained patience, “I advise you to get some coaching. A lot of coaching.”

  “Go to hell. I’m done talking to—”

  Patience snapped. “Then how about you shut up and listen for once. I’m trying to help you! Don’t you get that? You go ballistic like this before a judge or an Article 32 panel, you not only risk a big blot on your record, but you could be dismissed from service altogether. Is that what you want?”

  The words knocked the breath out of her. Dismissal from service was the officer equivalent of a bad conduct discharge. Would the army really do that to her?

  Murdock took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. His anger seemed to go with it. “Look. I’m not trying to throw blame on you or your captain. I’m only looking for a mitigating reason why she decided to go to Farid’s. If something in her past compelled her to rescue the boy from Farid, I need to know that. It would certainly read better than reporting she willfully disregarded a DOD directive.”