Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  I shake the thoughts out of my head. “Henry! Come on, boy. It’s too hot out here for this. Come and get the fucking carrot.” I gesture with the vegetable at the horse, who stands six feet away, shaking his mane and stomping one foot to keep the flies away. “Easy, boy…easy now. That’s it…just let me—” I hold the carrot out, the halter and lead rope in my other hand, inching toward him.

  I’d just leave him out here, but there’s even more fence down on this fence line, enough that he could get out completely if he were to find the gaps. Too much fence. Too much space. It’s all too much for me. But it’s land that’s been in Tom’s family for over a hundred years, and, aside from Tommy, it’s all I have left of him. I can’t sell it. And I don’t know where I’d go if I did, or what I’d do.

  So I do my best to hold on to the land, take care of the horses, plant the hay and the cotton, harvest it, bale it, sell it. But it’s too much, and I can’t do it all, and I sure can’t afford to hire anyone to help. The barn is falling apart. The fence is falling down. The house is falling apart.

  Everything is falling apart.

  I’m falling apart.

  Henry the Eighth whickers and dances backward as soon as I get within touching distance, bobbing his head and turning away. I reach for him, but he trots away again.

  We repeat this for another twenty minutes, until I finally snap.

  I curse, a sobbed sound of desperation, and throw the carrot to the ground, drop the halter, and fall to my knees. I breathe through it, keep it together, and then stand up slowly. “Fine, you asshole. Stay out here, then.”

  I wipe the sweat off my forehead and scratch the grass-tickled skin of my bare leg, and then I turn away and start walking. And, of course, I hear Henry behind me, huge hooves stomping. He nudges my shoulder and whickers again. I stop, and he puts his chin on my shoulder. That’s Henry for you — asshole one minute, wanting affection the next. I turn and put my face against his hot, thick neck, wrap my arm around his shoulder. He stands there, lets me hold him. I let myself cry for a minute, holding onto a troublesome horse I’ve spent the last hour chasing. After a few minutes, I push it all back down and wipe my eyes.

  Henry finally lets me halter him, and since we’re a good half mile away from the gate, I clip the lead line hook to one side of the halter, tie the end of the rope to the opposite side, creating an impromptu set of reins. Henry is an amazing horse. Broke to ride and pull, and trained in everything from dressage to hunt to western and English, but he’s got a streak of troublemaker in him when he’s riderless. Put a rider on his back, however, and he’s all business, steady, gentle, and trustworthy. I grab onto his mane with both hands and jump as high as I can, lying on my stomach across his back until I can get my leg over him. I adjust my seat, nudge him with my heel to get him turned in the right direction. A click of my tongue, and Henry sets off in a smooth trot.

  We make it to the gate leading from the north pasture to the central run between house, barn, and the paddocks. Hank and Ida are waiting. Hank opens the gate for me and closes it behind me as I walk Henry through it.

  “That boy makin’ trouble for you?” Hank asks. Hank is tall and straight despite his age, his white hair still thick and his bright blue eyes clear and intelligent. His face is angular and lined like weathered leather.

  I swing off and slide to the ground. “Yeah. He kicked down part of the fence and got out. I spent an hour chasing his stupid ass.”

  Hank pats Henry on the neck and takes the lead from me. “You oughta behave better, you big idiot. Sometimes I hate that we share a name, the way you carry on.”

  Henry the Eighth shakes his head and stomps a hoof, as if responding.

  Hank just laughs and tugs the horse into a walk. “Come on, then, boy.” To me, he says, “I’ll put him up in the barn for now, till we can get the fence fixed. Think any of the others will try to get out?”

  “Nah,” I say. “The rest are too lazy to bother jumping it. He didn’t knock the whole thing out, just enough that he could get over it. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

  “The hay’s gotta come in tomorrow. I’ve got my grandsons coming in for the week. One’a them’ll fix it for you.”

  I want to cry, thinking about how much work I’ve got to do, but I can’t. I just nod. “Thanks, Hank.”

  He waves. “Yup,” he drawls.

  Ida has Tommy in her arms, and he’s squalling like crazy, wiggling and trying to get to me. “He just won’t calm down, Reagan. I don’t even know what to do anymore. I’ve fed him, I’ve changed him, I’ve played with him…I think he just wants you.”

  I take my son from Ida, and he immediately quiets, lays his head on my shoulder. “Ma. Ma. Ma,” he says. “Horsey.” He points at the Henrys, off in the distance now.

  I pat Tommy on his diapered bottom, swaying side to side out of habit. “Yes, baby. That’s a horsey. That’s Henry.”

  I can feel Tommy going limp and heavy. It’s only eight-thirty in the evening, and he’s had a long nap, but he’s probably cried himself tired.

  Smiling at Ida, I head for the house. “Thanks, Ida. I’ll take him inside. Sorry he was so much trouble.”

  Ida, short and slim and seemingly too delicate for the harshness of Texas farm life, just smiles. “He’s never trouble, dear. Sometimes he just misses his mama, that’s all.”

  Guilt rushes through me. “Well, I’m out there all day. He never sees me.”

  Ida shakes her head and pats me on the arm. “You’re doing the best you can, honey.”

  “But sometimes my best just isn’t enough.” I didn’t mean to say that, but out it comes anyway.

  “Give it all you got, and give God the rest,” Ida says.

  “I gave God all I had, and He took him from me.” I’m fully aware of how bitter I sound, but I can’t help it.

  Ida leans in and embraces me. “I know, sweetie. I wish I had an answer for you. I really do.”

  I hug her back with my free arm, and then back away. “I know. Thanks again.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.” Ida heads toward the dirt driveway where Hank is waiting by their ancient red F-150.

  I take Tommy inside, wipe the dried tear tracks from his cheek as I set him in his crib, adjusting the ceiling fan to stir the air. The AC is on as high as it will go, but it’s not up to the task of keeping this big old farmhouse cool. I watch him sleep for a moment, my sweet little boy, my reminder.

  I hear a gentle knock on the front door, and my heart seizes. Hank and Ida have gone home, and if they were to come back, they wouldn’t knock, having lived next door their whole lives. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would knock on my door—not at this hour.

  I close the door to Tommy’s room and make my way downstairs. I pause in front of the door, hand shaking, not quite able to turn the knob. Finally, I summon the courage to open it.

  “Sergeant Bradford.” I step backward, opening the door all the way. “Come in.”

  He’s in the dress uniform I remember Tom referring to as “blue dress D”: a short-sleeved khaki shirt, tie, and belt, blue slacks with the red stripe down the side. Bradford steps in, back stiff, eyes automatically searching the room. He removes his hat as soon as he’s inside, and suddenly seems hesitant.

  “I know it’s late,” he says, his eyes sliding away from mine, “but I wanted…I had to come in person. I couldn’t just call you.”

  My stomach twists into knots, and my heart stops beating. “They found him?” I don’t dare to hope. Don’t dare. Can’t.

  He nods. “Yes. A patrol received reports of a Taliban outpost with two white males being held prisoner. They searched the area and found—found where Derek and Tom had been held.”

  “Had been?”

  “They’d been moved before our forces got there. But there was evidence they were there.” Sergeant Bradford blinks, hesitates. Swallows. “They combed the area and they discovered—they found your husband. He’s gone, Reagan. But they’re bringing his remains home for bur
ial.”

  I shake my head. Not in denial, but from the inability to accept what I’m hearing. “Tom….” It’s all I can manage.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Bradford touches my elbow.

  “And Derek?” I swallow my tears. “Did they find him, too?”

  Bradford shakes his head. “Unfortunately—or fortunately, no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that they didn’t find his body with Tom’s, so he’s likely still alive.”

  I don’t know what to do, or how to be. My emotions are on so much overload that I can’t even process them. “Oh,” is all I can say.

  “I know that’s not a lot of comfort to you, though,” he says as an afterthought.

  I try to shrug, and manage to lift a shoulder. “No, it’s good Derek’s still alive. Hopefully he is, at least. He and Tom were close.”

  Bradford just nods. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, turning his hat end over end in his hands. “I wish I didn’t have to bring you this news. I dreaded it, honestly. But I felt I owed it to you to tell you in person.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Thank you very much.”

  “I’ll be going. When Tom’s remains are back on U.S. soil, I’ll let you know, and we’ll make arrangements for a burial. I can take care of it for you, if you want.”

  “That would be…helpful.”

  “All right, then. Anything I can do for you?”

  I shrug, and it turns into a shake of my head. “No. I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m only a phone call away, if you think of anything.” He hands me another business card.

  He turns to go, and I find my voice. “Sergeant?” He pivots back, eyebrows raised in question. “Lieutenant Lewis’s wife. How is she coping?”

  He doesn’t seem to know how to answer. “It’s an impossible thing, Mrs, Barrett. I don’t think you do cope. You just survive it, one day at a time. I wish I could say it gets easier, but it doesn’t. My dad died in Vietnam, leaving my brother and me and our mom behind. I was just a little kid, but I remember Mom….” He trails off, shakes his head. “It was hard for her. Eventually…you’ll find your way to okay.”

  He leaves then, and I stand with the front door open, smelling the promise of a summer rain.

  Eventually…you’ll find your way to okay.

  Will I?

  CHAPTER 5

  DEREK

  Afghanistan, 2010

  I’m woken up by gunfire, shouts, and the sound of helicopters. Instantly, adrenaline rockets through me, supercharging me.

  I’ve been a prisoner so long I’d forgotten anything else existed. My universe was in constant motion, never staying in any one camp for more than a few weeks, but I always managed to bring the letter with me, hiding it in my clothes. I don’t know what they want with me, but they don’t kill me, and they don’t let me go. They use me in what I assume are propaganda videos, and keep me fed just enough to stave off starvation. They keep me in constant pain, too, with regular beatings. The gunshot wounds to my shoulder healed long ago, but they still ache sometimes.

  I’ve tried to escape a few times. The last time, they beat me within an inch of my life. Took me weeks to heal from that one, and I think I nearly didn’t. I’ll try again, but I’ve gotta get my strength back first.

  My mantra sustains me: I know I signed up for it when I married a Marine. I knew from the very beginning that you’d go into combat. I knew it, and married you anyway. How could I not? I loved you so much from the very beginning, from the first time I saw you, all those years ago. The letter. I repeat it over and over again. I wonder what it would be like to have that kind of love. I’ve never known. Never will know, probably.

  I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. Gotten lots of ass on my short leaves. It’s the uniform, and the fact that I ain’t ugly. Or…I didn’t used to be. Now, who knows? I haven’t seen myself in a mirror in who knows how long. I piss in a hole, shit in a hole, eat ground meat and pita and thin gruel from a wooden bowl. Rarely see daylight. So I might be ugly now, my face misshapen from all the boot kicks and fist blows, nose broken a hundred times, cheekbones cracked, lips split, eyebrows mashed, scalp ripped. They shave me every once in a while. To keep the lice out, I guess. But they shave me, very literally, with a rusty razor, so it cuts me up, leaving scars.

  They use a cane to beat me sometimes. Just a big stick, but it hurts like a bitch.

  Pain tells me I’m still alive, and the letter tells me why I’m holding on. Why I don’t just go nuts and make them kill me, I don’t know.

  You got in a lot of trouble for that stunt. But you found me. You knew my brother, who was walking with me at the time. You asked him who I was a few days later. He said he’d let you have a shot if I was willing, but if you broke my heart, he’d break your face. You showed up at my hotel room dressed in civvies.

  Thundering gunfire. Assault rifles crackle, AKs bark. Helo rotors thump. Rockets whoosh-boom.

  I tuck the letter between my belly and the pants. Flatten myself beside the door. Sure enough, the door is kicked open, and I see the flash of orange flame, hear shouts in Pashto, which I’ve learned a bit of now, simply through default: “Kill the American! Shoot him!” A figure swathed from head to toe, leaving only a slit for the eyes, appears in the doorway, wielding an AK. He doesn’t see me at first, is confused, pivots, AK held at waist level. Idiot.

  I slam the knife edge of my hand into his throat, grab the barrel of the rifle, jerk it up, knee to his groin, desperation making me inhumanly strong despite my near-starvation thinness. Head-butt to the nose, crunch. He goes limp for a split second, and I wrench the rifle free, slam the stock into his face over and over and over again, until the white cloth of his clothes and mine are both spattered in red. He falls against the wall, slumps to the ground. I step over him and go outside into the flame-lit darkness. Shadows within shadows, darting shapes in desert camo. The gray of near-dawn glows above the serrated mountain ridge.

  Crackcrack…crackcrack…crackcrack.

  Precision, coordination, merciless onslaught. Oorah, motherfuckers.

  And then I realize it’s dark and I’m wearing native clothes and carrying an AK. I tear the shirt off over my head, toss it to the ground. My pale skin is a flag now. Risky, but better than being accidentally shot by the guys coming to rescue me.

  I see a turban and a brown rifle stock in a window, and I blast it. Run to the window, lean in, see two more faces and rifles. I drop them, too. No training here. Just vengeance, empty the magazine into dead bodies.

  I twist at the sound of ghost-quiet footsteps in the grit. See night-vision gear, helmets, compact assault rifles.

  Grin. “Oorah. Took you fucking long enough.”

  They don’t respond. They just flank me, snatch the rifle from me, form a box around me, and march me through the burning rubble and bodies to the extraction point outside the village. One of them radios for pickup, acknowledging that they have me. Within seconds, rotors roar, and dust flies as a chopper descends. It doesn’t even touch down all the way. They escort me in, one on each side, rifles pointed out and down. A blanket is wrapped over my shoulders.

  Airborne, adrenaline leaves me, and realization sets in.

  I sob.

  I’m free. I’m fucking free.

  “You’re safe, sir,” a voice says. “We’ve got you. You’re going home.”

  I don’t even feel any shame as I bawl like a goddamn baby. Rest my head back against the vibrating wall.

  “Tom. Did you find Tom? They killed him. I don’t know where they put him, but they took him after he died. You have to find him. You can’t leave his body here.” I’m rambling.

  “We found him, sir.” The same voice, a young guy, maybe twenty at the most, sitting beside me, sharp-eyed, alert, fresh-faced.

  I pat the cloth-wrapped letter, make sure it’s still there in my pants.

  Exhaustion hits, and I can’t keep my eyes open. I feel myself leaning against t
he kid beside me, but I can’t keep myself upright. He doesn’t shift away. He lets me rest against him.

  “How long?” I mumble.

  “What, sir?”

  “How long? How long was I gone?”

  “You’ll be debriefed in full, sir.”

  “Just fucking tell him, pinhead,” someone else growls. “He deserves to know.”

  “It’s twenty-ten, sir. You were a POW for three years.”

  Three goddamn years.

  Tom’s baby isn’t a baby anymore.

  I have to find Reagan. Give her the letter.

  * * *

  Camp Leatherneck. Home away from home. At least, it used to be. Now it seems alien. Familiar, yet foreign. The helo sets down, dust whirls, and my head spins. I should be overjoyed to be back, to be among my own countrymen, but…I’m nervous. Scared. There, I said it. This ain’t combat, but I’m just as scared. More, actually. Damned if I know why, or of what.

  Maybe it’s the stares. Eyes follow me. A whole goddamn base of jarheads, and it feels like they’re all watching me descend to the ground, blanket tossed aside to reveal how skinny I am. They see my shaved scalp and gaunt frame and haunted eyes. I know that’s how I look. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windows as the Huey banked past the rising sun. Pale skin, sunken green eyes, thousand-yard stare. Used to have thick blond hair and a matching five o’clock shadow. Now all I’ve got is a nicked, scarred scalp shaved down to the skin. My jawline is pronounced, sharp, my skin sickly, the stubble on my head ingrown in places.

  Hands grip my biceps, carrying me forward. I feel like a prisoner. Flanked by armed Marines, I’m marched across the tarmac.

  “West?” a voice calls out from under a tent as I pass. “They fuckin’ found you? Goddamn! Boys! They’ve got Derek!”

  I pause, hunt for the voice. Billy Voss, Golf Company’s heavy weapons expert. Big, black, and badass. One of the few guys who can hit the broad side of a barn with a SAW while moving. He ducks out from under the tent, all six-foot-six of him, and lumbers toward me. Wraps me up in a bear hug. My throat seizes, and I have to swallow the onslaught of overwhelming emotion. What the fuck is wrong with me?