by Kaki Warner
Taking into account her lack of visible ink or piercings, her attention to personal hygiene and appearance, and her level of education, he’d assumed she’d been raised in a stable, two-parent, conservative, middle-class home. Probably went to church on Sunday. Followed the rules and stayed out of trouble. Grew up as either an only child or the oldest of several, falling in line with her parents’ expectations, and primed to succeed. He doubted she made her bed every day or ironed her socks, but she performed as expected. Her West Point ranking and officer training evaluation put her in the upper percentile. Overall, a nice person—highly motivated, hardworking, predictable, and maybe a little boring.
She was anything but boring or predictable. And really pretty. And the more time he spent with her, the more he realized how off his other assumptions had been, too.
Happy to listen, he let her do the talking, enjoying the play of emotions across her expressive face while he built a whole different file in his head.
She was the youngest of four sisters. Loved her family, but valued her time away from them. Her father had died of a heart attack when she was ten, yet she didn’t seem to be trying to replace him by seeking out older men. She certainly wasn’t playing up to him, and he was at least eight years older than she was.
Independent, capable, decisive. All outstanding traits. But the thing he admired most was her dry sense of humor. Almost sarcastic, but in a funny way. She could be serious but didn’t take herself too seriously, and that she had chosen a life of service indicated a strength of character he couldn’t help but admire.
Which is why he was surprised she had anxiety issues. Anxiety is most often based in fear, but he didn’t sense fear in KD. She didn’t appear overly upset that she’d taken a life, and seemed more disturbed about her captain’s death than the injury to herself. Denial? Survivor’s guilt?
She was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. Which only made him more determined to do just that.
The waitress came with their bill just as Richard’s phone buzzed. He checked caller ID. Stranton. Shit. The chief either had seen Richard’s final report on the Farid case, or had remembered approving Richard’s request for leave. Neither would put him in a good mood. But rather than have his ass chewed in front of KD, Richard let the call go to voice mail and put away his phone. “Now that we’ve had dessert,” he said after checking his watch, “how about lunch?”
They ordered—a BLT for him, a salad for her—and stayed another hour-and-a-half. Mostly they talked, although there were periods of companionable silence, as well. Richard appreciated that. Despite being surrounded by thousands of soldiers every day and dealing with new people and new circumstances on a regular basis, he considered himself a solitary person. Being a CID investigator only reinforced that. No one liked Big Brother analyzing his or her decisions and actions. Yet spending time with KD was surprisingly easy and comfortable. And watching her across the table was an added bonus. She was seriously sexy.
When the waitress headed their way for the third time, KD checked her phone. “Damn! I didn’t realize it was so late. My group session is about to start.”
Richard offered to pay the tab. “You provided the transportation.”
“Okay. Then thanks for lunch.”
She let him drive again. Probably easier on her hip. When he pulled into the parking lot outside the medical center, their earlier awkwardness returned. Richard wasn’t ready to walk away without finding out if he could see her again. Even though she was running late for her session, she seemed hesitant, too. He hoped for the same reason.
After he’d handed her the keys, he took a chance. “We never talked about the hearing. If you’re free later, maybe we could try again.”
She fought a smile. “Like a real date?”
He shrugged. “More like dinner.”
She handed the keys back to him. “My session is over at four.”
“I’ll meet you here.”
As soon as she’d disappeared into the building, Richard checked his voice mail. “No further action?” Stranton shouted in his message. “That’s your recommendation on the Farid case? Bullshit! We talked about this, Murdock! You know what you’re supposed to do, so do it! I want a revised report on my desk by tomorrow morning! Are we clear?”
Apparently, Chief Warrant Officer Stranton had finally checked his in-basket.
* * *
* * *
The Monday and Friday group therapy sessions were always hard on KD. She didn’t feel right sharing her personal business with strangers, especially strangers who had much bigger problems than she did. There were six patients in the group, three men, three women. Tommy was working through a TBI—traumatic brain injury—and was still struggling with neurological and physical issues. When he wasn’t heavily medicated.
Shirley, a petite female medic who had lost her right leg below the knee when an IED exploded beneath the ambulance she was driving, was waiting for a high-end prosthetic and anxious to get back to the front. Apparently, after-market limbs were less problematic than plastic and metal joints. A young Hispanic—KD didn’t remember his name but mentally thought of him as Drummer Boy—couldn’t sit still and tapped out drumbeats on his knees throughout each session. The third woman, Laura, might have been pretty, if not for the burn scar that covered half of her face. She tried to hide it by wearing hoodies and sitting with her head down while she silently cried for the hour she was there.
And then there was Rayfield, a big Black sergeant with no visible injuries. He sat sullenly through the meetings, stewing in rage and giving some of the other members nicknames—a common practice in the military. In boot camp, KD had been called Pocket Pal because of her small stature. But Sergeant Rayfield went for a racial approach and called her Snow White. Shirley, also small, but highly energetic and more talkative, was Mighty Mouse, and he’d given Dr. Prescott, a small, timid man with thick glasses and a mild voice, the name Conan because of his meek, nonconfrontational approach to the group dynamic. Every patient in the group suffered some form of anxiety or PTSD, and each expressed it in varying degrees of anger, fear, frustration, and grief.
Other than to offer a brief explanation of her injury when she attended her first session, KD rarely contributed. Like Sergeant Rayfield, none of her scars were visible. After her panic attack at Landstuhl, Dr. Hwang said that although she didn’t display the usual signs of PTSD—jitteriness, hypervigilance, flashbacks, depression, or any of the other dozens of ways the brain fucked with people who had suffered terrible, traumatic events—she still had unresolved issues, and he felt she might benefit from group therapy. So here she sat twice a week. And since she didn’t talk much or show any outward symptoms, the others in the group largely ignored her.
Except for Sergeant Rayfield. He had been on KD’s case from the beginning, harassing her for not speaking up more and saying there were already too many pussies in the army without having to recruit women, too. She did her best to ignore him.
But when she walked into the meeting after her lunch with Murdock, she saw that the sergeant was in an especially bad mood and looking for a fight. With her, it seemed.
“Why you even show up, Snow White?” he demanded as soon as the others had settled into their chairs. “You never say nothing. Never do nothing. Just sit with that smug look on your face. You too good to share with the likes of us?”
KD met his belligerence with a bland smile. “What would you like for me to say, Sergeant? I’ve told you how I was injured.” She didn’t mention that he’d never told her why he was there, either. Not that she particularly wanted to know.
“Yeah, but that ain’t why you’re here, is it? Getting shot don’t seem to be what’s bothering you. It’s something else. Something worse. You got shame written all over your lily-white face. What’d you do, Snow White?”
He had asked the question before, and KD had managed to steer him off the subj
ect. But today, his wasn’t the only questioning face turned her way.
“Why won’t you talk?” Tommy TBI asked in a slurred voice.
“Yeah. Everybody else does,” Drummer Boy added.
“If you ain’t gonna participate, then get the hell out,” the sergeant said, nodding to the others. “We trying to work here.”
“Now, Rayfield,” murmured Dr. Prescott.
“I ain’t talking to you, Conan. I’m talking to her.”
Afraid things would devolve into a shouting match, KD said, “I’m here because my doctor thinks I have acute anxiety disorder.”
“Anxiety about what?” Shirley, the female amputee, asked.
The past. The future. Failing again. Having another anxiety attack and making an ass of myself. “The death of my captain.”
“You killed her?”
“No. But I might have caused her death.” Knowing they would keep at her until she said it all, KD went through the whole ordeal, focusing on her mistakes in not looking for a gun and not going back to help when she’d heard the first gunshot. It took a while, but they listened without interruption.
By the time she’d finished, she felt wrung out. Sweat dampened the back of her shirt, and her fingers were numb from being clasped together so hard. I’m okay, she told herself. There’s no danger. Breathe. She did, but it still took effort to keep her voice steady. “I feel like I let my captain down. Like I let myself down. That’s all.”
Rayfield asked how long the captain had been in the army.
Apprehension built, making her heart beat too fast, but KD forced herself to take another long, deep breath. “I’m not sure. At least a decade. Maybe more.”
“Combat?”
“This was her third tour in Afghanistan.”
“You?”
“My first. I just finished officer training school.” Please, don’t let it happen again. Not in front of all these people. I’m okay. I’m safe. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me.
“Shit!” The big sergeant rocked back in his chair, a deep laugh rumbling out of his barrel chest. “Damn! You sure full of yourself, ain’t you, Snow White?”
KD wasn’t sure how to respond. Or if she was able to.
“Now, Sergeant,” Dr. Prescott said.
Rayfield ignored him. “You whining about not protecting her? You? An undersized, know-nothing, still-wet-behind-the-ears, green-ass lieutenant? Hell, she should have been watching out for you.”
“Maybe she was,” Shirley cut in. “Maybe she saw the situation was going bad, and to protect the lieutenant, she sent her out of the room to look for the boy.”
“Then the captain damn sure should have checked for a gun herself. Just like a woman to forget the important stuff.” Sarge turned back to KD. “As for not running in when the shooting started, she sent you to find the boy and see if he needed help. You supposed to disobey that order, forget the kid, and dive into the middle of a firefight? That’s stupid, even for a white woman.”
“Go to hell, Sarge,” Shirley snapped.
“See you there, Mighty Mouse!”
Abruptly, Dr. Prescott stood and looked at his wristwatch. “Time’s up. Enough for today, people. Excellent progress. See you on Friday.”
Before he’d finished speaking, the room had emptied. Except for KD.
She sat frozen, her mind reeling. Had she been wrong all this time about her part in her captain’s death? But what should she have done? Help the boy, as ordered? Or disobey that order and go back to help her captain? Or do nothing, as per DOD policy, and leave the boy to his abuser? It was a no-win situation.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
KD looked up to see Dr. Prescott standing over her with a look of concern. “Wh-what? No—I mean yes, I’m fine.” Aware of the doctor still staring at her, she rose unsteadily and walked toward the exit. But once the door had closed behind her, she stumbled to a stop, Rayfield’s words still careening through her mind. Was he right? Should she have disobeyed her captain and run back to help? Or should she have disobeyed the DOD policy of noninterference and stayed to save Taj? Either way, she was screwed.
It was that simple. And that complicated. And as everything suddenly fell into place, the implications of what she had done took her breath away.
The moral choice was clear—help the boy—even if that was in direct conflict with DOD policy. That’s what she’d done. Would do again if she had to. And once the Article 32 panel heard that, it would all be over. Her career. Her future. Everything she had worked for.
But at least Taj would be safe.
“Wait up,” a voice called.
Her thoughts in turmoil, KD looked over to see Shirley swinging out of the restroom on her crutches.
“Sarge might be an asshole,” she said when she fell in beside KD. “But he’s right. Your captain’s death isn’t on you.”
KD wanted so badly to believe that was true. But she was so confused she didn’t know what to think anymore.
“Sarge is mad at the world right now,” Shirley went on as KD moved automatically to open the exit door for her. “But he’s not a bad guy. And he’s got more experience than you and your captain combined, so he knows what’s what.”
KD nodded numbly.
“And it’s not just you he’s mad at,” Shirley continued as she started awkwardly down the steps. “It’s all women. He’s old-school. Thinks the army should never have allowed us in.” When she reached the sidewalk, she paused to catch her breath.
KD stopped beside her. She looked out over the parking lot, saw the Camry and a tall, dark-clad figure leaning against it, scrolling through his phone. Calm, capable Murdock. Suddenly, the need to go to him almost overwhelmed her. He would know what to do. How to make sense of this.
“Sarge lost someone dear to him, too,” Shirley said. “He told us before you joined the group.”
KD forced her attention back to the woman beside her. “Sarge lost someone? In combat?”
“Fool fell in love. Hooked up with a woman in his unit. Told us they were going to get married soon as her tour was up. Then one day she goes out on patrol and never comes back.”
“What happened?”
“Ambush.” Shirley let out a long, deep sigh. “Taliban got them all. Except for her. Her, they kept for a while. And when they were done, they left pieces of her scattered where the others had died. Except for her head. Never found that. But Sarge recognized what was left and went crazy. He’s still crazy. Blames himself. Blames God. Blames the army for letting women in, in the first place.” She gave KD a small, sad smile. “But he doesn’t hate you, Snow White. He’s just afraid it’ll happen again. To you, or me, or some other woman.” Shaking her head, she started toward the side lot. “Thinks we should all stay home in the kitchen,” she called back over her shoulder as she swung along. “Barefoot and pregnant and out of harm’s way. Yeah, right. Like that’ll happen.” She laughed. “See you Friday.”
* * *
* * *
Richard saw KD coming and knew right off something was wrong. By the time she reached him, she was gulping at air and her eyes were frantic. “Drive,” she said in a choked voice. “I have to get out of here.”
He opened her door, closed it after she got in, then went around to the driver’s side. “Where to?” he asked, punching the ignition button.
“I don’t care. I don’t know. Shit.” Leaning forward, she pressed her hands to her face.
He could hear ragged breathing and wondered if she was crying or having another panic attack. What happened? Needing something to do, he buckled his seat belt, fiddled with the air-conditioning, adjusted his seat. “What can I do?”
She shook her head.
He’d seen a lot of soldiers with PTSD and anxiety issues. He knew to wait them out. But it was hard to sit and do nothing when she was hurt
ing this bad.
After a few minutes, her breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. When she took her hands from her face and sat up, he saw her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. He didn’t know if it was from tears or sweat, but she seemed to be calming down.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“Killeen. Barkley Suites.” She fumbled in her purse, took out a hotel key card, and clutched it in both hands like a lifeline. “A mile or so outside the gates.”
He drove out of the lot. A few minutes later, they passed through the main gate and turned toward Killeen.
“Take a left at the Shell station,” she said. “Around back. One fourteen.”
Whatever had happened in her therapy session had sucked the life right out of her. She moved like an old woman when she got out of the car. Richard stayed close behind her in case she crumbled, but she made it on her own. Once inside, she stumbled over to the couch and almost fell into it. Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Afraid to leave until he was sure she was okay, Richard wandered around, getting his bearings.
It was a nice suite. A small but well-appointed kitchen with all the necessary appliances, cookware, and dishes, separated from the living area by a long, high counter. The main part of the room held the couch she was on, an end table, a small dining table with two chairs, an upholstered chair and footrest, a credenza with a flat-screen on top and drawers below, and a small corner desk with a chair.
A door across from the kitchen opened into a bedroom with a queen bed and nightstand, a chest of drawers with a TV on top, a small closet, and a chair with a floor lamp beside it. Another door led to a sizable bathroom with an oversized shower, a separate room for the head, and double sinks. Both the main room and the bedroom overlooked an interior courtyard with a pool, two barbecue grills, a couple of tables and chairs, and several chaise lounges. A nice place. Not cheap. Safe for a woman traveling alone.
He returned to the main room. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were still closed.
