In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  Taking her place, Brian withdrew the gun. Black and freshly oiled, it was a nine-millimeter Luger semiautomatic, perfectly balanced in his hand. He checked the safety, then snapped it open to scrutinize the magazine. “This is loaded, Kate.”

  Pale, she sat on the edge of the bed. “Does he have more bullets?” Brian asked.

  “In the closet, I think.”

  Brian found the box of cartridges on the top shelf, next to the cap of Joe’s dress uniform. He stuffed the box in his pocket and the gun in his waistband. “What are you doing?” Kate asked.

  “Taking it away. If Joe wants his gun back, he’ll have to talk to me.” Brian felt his anger stir again. “Don’t worry, Kate. I won’t forget to call him ‘sir.’ ”

  Kate gave her head a vehement shake. “Please, Brian—you have no idea how he’ll react. If he loses control, he could kill you. Even without a gun.”

  “Because he’s the Karate Kid? So he’s told me.”

  Gripping his wrists, Kate looked up at him, fright filling her eyes again. Brian kissed her forehead. “Get help,” he repeated softly. “Before this spins out of control.”

  He left with Joe D’Abruzzo’s gun.

  MEG, TERRY NOTED, HAD listened with taut alertness, as if hearing Brian’s account for the first time. “Between that night and the shooting,” he asked Brian, “how many days passed?”

  “Three.”

  “Did you talk with D’Abruzzo?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know he was coming to your apartment?”

  Once again, Brian glanced at Meg. “Kate called to warn me.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  With the same detachment, Brian recited his version of events.

  WHEN HIS LANDLINE RANG, Brian was emerging from the shower. The ringing stopped before he could pick up his bedroom telephone. He dried himself, dressed, then listened to the message.

  “He’s coming over.” Kate’s recorded voice was high-pitched with anxiety. “If you’re there, don’t let him in.”

  Brian’s cell phone was on the nightstand, the D’Abruzzos’ number on speed dial. Within seconds Kate answered. “He knows about the gun,” she blurted out at once. “He was hitting me, and I had to tell him—”

  Jittery, Brian interjected, “It’s okay, Kate—”

  “He’s drunk and crazy. Please get out of there.”

  “This has to end.” Brian drew a breath, calming himself. “I need to tell him that.”

  Kate’s voice rose. “You can’t reason with him, Brian. He wants his gun back.”

  “He can’t have it,” Brian answered, then heard the shrill bleat from the building’s outside door, the signal to admit a caller. Steadying his voice, he said, “He’s here, Kate. I can handle it.”

  Hanging up, Brian removed the handgun from his dresser drawer, then walked to the living room. The buzzer sounded again. Quickly, he concealed the gun beneath the pillow on his overstuffed chair. After a moment’s hesitation, he buzzed Joe in.

  It would take less than half a minute, Brian calculated, for Joe to climb the stairs to the second floor. Opening his door, he backed into the room, standing beside the chair.

  Thudding footsteps echoed in the stairwell. In Brian’s hallway, they slowed, and then Joe D’Abruzzo filled the door frame.

  Dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, Joe looked like a day laborer emerging from a bar. His face was flushed, his forehead shiny with sweat, his eyes—the mirror of Joe’s vitality—darting and unfocused. The living room felt claustrophobic. At once Brian was viscerally aware that Kate’s husband was four inches taller, heavier by thirty pounds, and trained to kill or disable an opponent. This is like Iraq, Brian told himself. Think and feel nothing.

  Joe entered the room, hand outstretched, eyes focusing on Brian. In the tone of a commanding officer, though thickened by drink, Joe said, “You have my gun, Lieutenant.”

  To Brian’s ear, his own reply sounded faint. “You threatened Kate with it.”

  Joe moved the curled fingers of his outstretched hand, signaling that Brian should fill it with the Luger. “She’s none of your business.”

  Brian shook his head. “This is about family. In all but name, Kate’s a McCarran.”

  Joe gave him a sudden sarcastic smile. “And I’m an outsider—I’ve always known that. But I’m her husband.”

  “You don’t have the right to beat her.” Brian inhaled, fighting to slow the racing of his pulse. “I can ruin your career—”

  “You little shit.” Joe’s broad face was a mask of anger, his dark eyes wild with unreason. “If I want to, I can shatter your windpipe. Or gouge your fucking eyes out.”

  He took another step forward, closing the distance to perhaps three feet. Stepping back, Brian hit the chair, briefly stumbling before he righted himself. D’Abruzzo emitted a bark of laughter. Brian felt the room closing around them, his enemy’s distorted face filling his line of vision. Without thinking he reached for the gun.

  It was aimed at Joe before Brian knew it. Joe flinched, eyes widening with surprise as he took one step back. “Get help,” Brian said quickly. “Or I’ll protect her any way I can.”

  D’Abruzzo tensed. In a tone of forced bravado, he said, “Going to shoot me, McCarran?”

  “Get out—”

  In a split second, Joe spun sideways, hands raised to attack. Brian’s finger twitched, the gun jumping in his hand. Joe’s outcry of surprise and pain mingled with the popping sound Brian knew too well.

  HE STOPPED ABRUPTLY, STARING past Terry as though at something on the river. “What happened next?” Terry asked.

  At first he thought Brian had not heard. Seconds passed, and then Brian answered in a voice so distant it struck Terry as dissociated. “I don’t know, sir.”

  The military formality made the words sound even stranger. Terry saw Meg’s lips part, but she made no sound. “Did you fire more than once?” Terry prodded.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Still Brian did not face him. “I could tell from the body.”

  Terry thought swiftly. “Where was it?”

  “By the wall.”

  “Which wall?”

  “Near the door.”

  Meg leaned forward to intervene. “He was in shock,” she told Terry.

  “You weren’t there,” Terry reminded her softly. As Meg’s eyes widened at the tacit rebuke, he asked Brian in the same quiet voice, “How many feet was his body from your chair?”

  The CID, Terry knew, would have measured this. Vaguely, Brian said, “Ten feet, maybe twelve.”

  “How did he get there?”

  When Meg tried to speak again, Terry held up his hand, his gaze fixed on Brian’s profile. Brian closed his eyes. His tone was less resentful than perplexed. “I can’t bring it back. The whole time before seeing his body—it’s just gone . . .”

  His voice trailed off. With the same dispassion, Terry asked, “What position was the body in?”

  Brian’s gaze seemed more focused on a powerboat scudding across the water, the rhythmic thud of its motor punctuating the silence. At length Brian said, “He was lying on his side.”

  “Facing you or the wall?”

  Meg, Terry saw, had clasped her hands, her interlaced fingers tightening. “The wall,” Brian answered.

  “Was he dead?”

  Brian swallowed, rippling the puckered welt on his neck. “He didn’t move.”

  “After you saw him on the floor, what did you do next?”

  Brian did not answer. “Look at me,” Terry ordered quietly.

  Silently, Brian turned to face him. “Did you call the MPs?” Terry asked.

  Brian blinked. “He called me,” Meg admitted in a low, flat voice.

  Surprised, Terry remained focused on Brian. “Is that right?”

  Slowly, Brian nodded. “What did you tell her?” Terry asked.

  More silence. At length, Brian said, “That I’d shot Joe D’Abruzzo.”
/>
  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did Meg respond?”

  Now Brian sounded weary. “She said to call the MPs.”

  “How long did you talk to her?”

  Brian shrugged, a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t know. I wasn’t keeping time.”

  Abruptly, Terry turned to Meg. “Where were you?”

  Meg met his gaze. “My office. It was before five o’clock in San Francisco.”

  “There’ll be a record of the call,” Terry said. “How long was it?”

  “Maybe five, six minutes.”

  “Of silence?”

  “Brian was disoriented,” Meg answered for him. “It took time for me to get a fix on this. I also told him not to talk to CID, and to ask for a lawyer right away.” Her fingertips resting on Brian’s shoulder, she added with resignation, “Obviously, he didn’t hear me. When you’re in shock, conditioning takes over. Brian is conditioned to tell the truth.”

  For Brian’s sake, Terry nodded his understanding. “How long, Brian, until you called the MPs?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “When they arrived, did someone pronounce D’Abruzzo dead?”

  “I don’t remember—one guy took me to the bedroom, and we waited for the CID.” Brian’s puzzled voice suggested the strangeness of the memory. “I told them everything I could remember, just like I told you. But a piece was missing.”

  “What else did they ask you?”

  “Random stuff. Who my friends were. What hours I work. What I’d done that day. If I was dating anyone—”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Did they ask if you were dating Kate D’Abruzzo?”

  Brian seemed to stiffen. “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That it was a bullshit question.” Brian shifted his weight, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together. “I love Kate like a sister. Her kids call me Uncle Brian.”

  “Before Kate asked for help,” Terry asked, “how was your relationship with D’Abruzzo?”

  Brian sat straighter. “He was Kate’s husband. Sometimes he talked about himself too much. But he was the guy she chose.” Pausing, he seemed to search for an easy summary. “When all of us were together, we got along fine. Mostly I felt neutral.”

  “Including when you both served in Iraq?”

  Brian shrugged again. “Joe gave orders. I followed them.”

  Terry wondered whether he heard, or imagined, a note of buried contempt. “Was he a good company commander?”

  Suddenly Brian seemed to withdraw; he was as still as, the moment before, he had started to seem restless. Leaning forward, Terry asked, “Did something come to you, Lieutenant?”

  Brian’s eyelids flickered. “Iraq’s got nothing to do with this. Joe beat Kate; I took his gun; he came for it; I shot him before he attacked me. Now he’s dead.”

  Meg squeezed his shoulder in support, watching Terry closely as she did this. Quietly, Terry asked, “Why didn’t you unload the gun?”

  Brian eyed him with renewed calm. “The guy was beating Kate—I didn’t know what he might do. But I knew that he could kill an unarmed man. Once she called, I figured I might need it to protect myself. That’s what I told CID.”

  For the moment, Terry thought, he had pushed this man far enough. “About CID,” Terry said, “from now on, you should discuss this only with me. If CID contacts you, give them my number. Otherwise, as hard as this situation is, do your job. If there was ever a time to be an exemplary officer, it’s now.”

  Brian considered him. With such mildness that it could have been sarcasm, he responded, “I always try, sir. It’s genetic.”

  Terry smiled a little. “Have you spoken to your father, by the way?”

  “Not yet,” Meg put in. “I told Dad to give Brian a couple of days.”

  “When you do,” Terry told Brian, “remember that heart-to-hearts between father and son aren’t privileged. Familial concern doesn’t buy you confidentiality.”

  Brian gave him a quizzical look. With the same soft voice he said, “Don’t worry, sir.”

  Standing to leave, Terry said easily, “Try to call me Paul. At least in private, we can bag the military courtesies.”

  This induced the trace of a smile. “Habits are hard to break, sir. Even when I should.”

  Terry headed for the catwalk. Only when he reached it did he realize that Meg had lingered with Brian, talking softly before she kissed his cheek. A fair distance away, he stopped to wait in the hot noonday sun.

  As she came toward him, Terry was struck again by her distinctive presence, self-possession mixed with an aura of solitude. At length she joined him, walking in contemplative silence. “Is he always like that?” Terry asked. “Or is it that he just killed the father of two kids who call him ‘Uncle Brian’?”

  She gave him a cool sideways glance. “Joe D’Abruzzo isn’t the first man Brian has killed, Captain Terry. As I said, Iraq changed him.”

  “We should explore that. But next to Brian, the most important witness is Kate. I need to see her.”

  “When?”

  “Now, if she can handle it.”

  They stopped at the end of the catwalk. “I’ll have to feel her out,” Meg replied. “If she’s able to talk, I’ll call you in an hour or so.”

  It was not a suggestion, but a statement. Meg, Terry thought, was cementing her role as go-between. But he needed Kate D’Abruzzo, and only Meg knew her. So here he was, stuck with the most attractive and intelligent woman he had ever wanted to be rid of.

  “Fine,” he said. “I appreciate your help.”

  three

  WITHIN THE HOUR, TO TERRY’S SURPRISE, MEG CALLED TO SAY that Kate D’Abruzzo would see him.

  He found the town house easily, in a pseudocolonial development offering two stories and three bedrooms to the families of Fort Bolton. When he rapped the door knocker, Kate D’Abruzzo let him in.

  She was dark, slender, and superficially composed, with aquiline features, wounded blue eyes offset by pale skin, and a bearing that, despite a T-shirt and blue jeans, retained a natural elegance. Whereas Meg McCarran was a classic Irish beauty, Kate, much taller, had the aristocratic aura that, in their very different ways, also adhered to Meg’s father and brother. But, like Meg, Kate appeared drained by sleeplessness and trauma.

  Greeting Terry, she made no effort at animation. Meg was already there: when Kate sat beside her on the couch, across from Terry, he sensed two female allies confronting a stranger, except that these women did not seem to look at each other.

  Kate and Joe D’Abruzzo’s son and daughter, Meg had informed him, were with Kate’s mother, Rose Gallagher; the adults could speak freely. The only sign of what had been a family was a side table with framed photographs of a black-haired boy, Mathew; his brunette younger sister, Kristen; and, more unsettling, of a smiling Kate and her late husband. A quick appraisal of Joe’s photograph modified Terry’s image—though the black crew-cut hair, broad peasant face, and prow of a nose suggested the intimidating man described by Brian McCarran, Joe’s dark brown eyes sparkled with vitality, and the crooked smile that split his face lent his rugged features a look of warmth. From this picture, Terry might have cast D’Abruzzo as the captain of his football team: ferocious on the field, a loyal and fun-loving friend once the game was over. But Terry’s job now was to reconstruct who D’Abruzzo had become in the months before his death.

  Observing his inspection of the photographs, Kate spoke to no one in particular. “Last night I still couldn’t sleep. I drank two glasses of wine, and found the courage to look at our wedding album. In the middle was a picture of Joe and Brian, two men I love, grinning at each other. I had to close the album.” She stared past Terry at the wall. “What do you do with memories, I wonder, when something terrible turns them from joyous to unbearable.”

  This stark recitation, Terry found, evoked his own childhood, even as it deepened hi
s sense of tragedy overtaking two families—both adults and children. “How are your kids?” he asked.

  The question focused her attention back to Terry. “Mathew hardly says a word,” she answered. “He’s trying to be so stoic, like his dad would have been, that it makes me ache for him. Kristen cries. Right now they’re all that’s keeping me from wishing I were dead.” She paused, giving a quick shake of the head, as though correcting herself. “No, that’s not true. There’s Brian. Because of me his whole life may be ruined. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

  Terry nodded. “Can we talk about your husband, Mrs. D’Abruzzo?”

  Kate folded her hands. “Yes. It’s not like I haven’t spent hours and days thinking about who he came to be.”

  Meg, Terry observed, watched Kate with deep attentiveness, but without the look of pained sympathy she had accorded to Brian. “How did Joe change?” Terry asked.

  Kate contemplated her husband’s photograph, perhaps to reacquaint herself with a person who, even before his death, had vanished. “There was always more than one Joe,” she said at length. “Ebullient, active, insecure, fun-loving, quick to feel hurt or slighted—in a day, he might be several of these men. But with the kids, he was always the same guy, at least when he had time: fiercely protective, and very attentive. If he did right by them, he told me once, they would always know they were loved, and never, ever, feel inadequate in any way.” Her voice softened. “Joe was a blue-collar guy. You wouldn’t call him introspective. But he understood his own wounds, and he didn’t want to pass them to his kids. I loved him for that, and I counted on his decisiveness and strength. Despite his moods, he always tried to show how much he valued me.”

  “And that changed?”

  “I suppose we both changed,” Kate responded at length. “Before Joe went to Iraq, I found myself picking fights with him. I realize now that I felt he was deserting me, like my father did by dying in Vietnam.

  “That wasn’t fair—Joe was a soldier, and I chose to marry him. Still, once he was there, I worried obsessively about him dying—as if, like my mother, two men in uniform would show up at the door and tell me I was a widow. But Joe didn’t die.” She cocked her head, reflecting. “Actually, he started dying in slow motion. His letters got shorter and more phlegmatic, his phone calls less frequent and more distant. His world seemed to close during some calls, he barely asked about the kids. I could feel him slipping away.”