In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  For the first time, Terry noted, Rose looked vaguely uncomfortable. “My role,” she added slowly, “was more ambiguous. As time went on, Tony asked me to keep an eye on Mary and the children. No one spoke of it; everyone knew. Mary despised me for it. But I hadn’t supplanted her in Tony’s bed. If there was a problem, and Tony was gone, most people knew to call me.”

  “What kind of problem?” Terry asked.

  Rose was quiet for a moment. “They usually involved alcohol,” she answered. “The worst of them was the last.”

  IT BEGAN WITH A late-night call from Betty Kramer, the wife of the commanding general’s chief of staff. Mary McCarran had nearly crashed into the guard house at the main gate; too drunk to drive, she was also too belligerent to accept that. “She’s creating a scene,” Betty said in apology. “Tony’s in Germany, I guess you know. We were hoping you could take her home and look in on the children.”

  Rose felt torn between her loathing for Mary’s selfishness and pity for Meg and Brian—reserving, she silently acknowledged, a little for herself. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll call if I need help.”

  Throwing on slacks and a sweater, she ran a comb through her hair, jumped in the car, and took the highway to the main gate. Caught in the pitiless light surrounding the guard house, Mary McCarran leaned against her station wagon for balance with a soldier hovering over her, looking like a refugee trapped at a border crossing.

  Rose parked a few yards back. For a moment, Mary did not see her, and then humiliation filled her eyes. The overhead light made her thin face look haggard, accenting the unhealthy pallor beneath a little too much rouge. With a jolt, Rose felt that she was looking at an X-ray of the future, a woman becoming old before her time. The soldier beside her, out of his depth, gave Rose an imploring look before backing away.

  Softly, Rose said, “I’ve come to drive you home, Mary. We can get the car tomorrow.”

  Angrily, Mary swiped at a strand of hair that had fallen across her face, as though to restore her own composure. “Who called you?” she demanded in a surprisingly lucid voice.

  “Don’t humiliate yourself in public,” Rose said evenly. “Too many people depend on you—”

  “Tony?” Mary burst out. “Tony just wants a broodmare. You could do that for him.”

  Rose wanted to slap her. More softly yet, she said, “No doubt Meg’s waiting up for you. Try to give her some semblance of a mother, instead of a narcissistic bitch.”

  The unaccustomed harshness seemed to startle Mary as much as it did Rose. The wildness in her eyes dulled. “So you’re not a plaster saint.”

  Rose glanced toward the guard, standing like a statue fifteen feet away. “Not at all,” she said quite calmly. “Personally, I no longer care whether you live or die. Your family may. Too bad they get so little from you.”

  Perhaps it was her own self-control, Rose thought, that prompted Mary to draw herself up, as though to match her in dignity and height. “I’ll let you play your role,” she said. “Your little, pitiful role—Tony’s shadow spouse. Drive me home.”

  Rose did not trust herself to speak. Instead, she angled her head toward the car. As though to assert her freedom of will, Mary walked ahead of her, tripping as she reached the car. Opening the door, she tumbled into the passenger seat.

  Rose slid behind the wheel. Inside the car, Mary smelled of whiskey and tobacco—when drunk, she became a chain-smoker, snatching cigarettes from whoever had them. “God,” she said in a long exhalation of breath. “What’s happened to us.”

  The change of mood unsettled Rose. “I don’t know.”

  Mary stared out the windshield as Rose drove, the grounds of Fort Bolton, dark and silent, enveloping them. “The army,” she announced with the sententiousness of drink. “Vietnam. Our husbands died in Vietnam.”

  “No,” Rose snapped. “Jack did. Seventeen years ago, you got back a man who is still worth loving.”

  Mary turned to her. “And who does Tony love? Besides the army?”

  Rose was afraid to answer. “Well,” Mary said in a bitter voice. “No matter, anymore. Tonight I was with a man who gives me what I want.”

  Rose parked in front of the Irish Georgian house with the nameplate “Colonel Anthony McCarran.” There was a light on in the living room. Turning to Mary, Rose said, “No one can, Mary. You’re a black hole of need, and you’re sucking your family in with you. You might consider giving them a break.”

  Lips parted, Mary gave her a long stare in which pain and anger were so commingled that Rose wanted to turn away. Without speaking, Mary left the car.

  Rose watched her tread the brick walk to the house, a solitary figure on unsteady feet. As she neared the door, it opened. Meg had waited up for her.

  Rose could not see the girl’s face. But by now she knew Meg’s expression by heart, the sad mixture of uncertainty and hope with which she so often greeted her mother. Rose’s heart filled with pity for this lonely girl. Who, she wondered, would Mary McCarran destroy first—her husband or her daughter?

  SITTING ACROSS FROM TERRY, Rose Gallagher briefly closed her eyes.

  “It never came to that,” she told him in a parched voice. “Two weeks later, when the children were in school, Mary took a kitchen knife and slashed her wrist to the bone. When Meg found her, she was dead.” Seeing Terry wince, she added, “I suppose you didn’t know.”

  Mute, Terry shook his head, a current of horror and pity running through him. He found himself imagining the moment of discovery, yet shrinking from its details. In that instant, he began to understand Meg on a visceral level, changing how he saw her. “I’ve thought about that awful time so often,” Rose said quietly. “Our last conversation; Mary’s suicide. Its impact on the children—especially Meg. She’ll never forget that moment for the rest of her life.” She settled back in her chair, as though to reclaim a certain neutrality of feeling. “It changed her. After that I saw a fear of becoming like her mother, a deep ambivalence about the military, and an aversion to depending on anyone. And, beneath the surface, a feeling of responsibility for Mary’s suicide. Meg takes responsibility for anything McCarran.”

  “So do you, it seems.”

  Rose smiled, a brief movement of lips. “True. But I didn’t build a fortress around myself. Meg became afraid to trust—except for Brian and, to some extent, Tony. At some level, I think she’s angry at both her father and her mother, and her defensive feelings about Brian are also a surrogate for that anger. But don’t expect Meg to tell you that.”

  “I won’t,” Terry answered. “With Meg, I sometimes feel like I’m walking through a minefield, and don’t know where the trip wires are. Including her relationship to all the rest of you.”

  “It’s complicated,” Rose concurred with a trace of sadness. “But don’t misunderstand me. Meg also loves her father immeasurably, and still craves his approval. That’s part of Mary’s legacy, as well. From the day Meg found her body, she tried to be the best girl in the world.”

  “What about General McCarran?”

  Rose’s eyelids lowered, lending her a thoughtful air. “Tony had his faith to fall back on. Add to that the experience of combat: part of Tony’s job in Vietnam was to kill Vietnamese. And he did.

  “I counsel children, not soldiers. But combat involves coping with hard things by repressing them. I know that Tony felt a terrible guilt about Mary’s suicide, complicated by an anger just as strong.” She hesitated. “Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this. But one night shortly after Mary’s death, when the children were in bed, he got truly drunk for the only time I ever saw. He sat beside me, staring into the fireplace, and said that he’d wished her dead for years. Men like Tony don’t take those feelings to a psychiatrist. They kill them.”

  She said this with such finality that Terry felt shaken. “How did that affect the family?” he asked.

  “In some ways, it made them closer—the McCarrans closed around their own hurt. And beneath Tony’s iron discipline is a reservoir of
sweetness.” Pausing, Rose studied the wedding picture that captured Meg’s artificial smile. “I think Meg felt that. But she kept looking for more than Tony could give her—in part because of what his life had made him, in part because he was so often unavailable. So her love of Tony is marbled with resentment over Mary’s death, and the death of her own childhood.”

  “And Brian?”

  “Received most of the attention Tony could bestow. Brian alone could redeem the failure of Tony’s marriage by carrying on the McCarran tradition. At least that’s how I saw it.”

  “High expectations.”

  Rose’s smile suggested irony rather than amusement. “Perhaps placed on the wrong child. Meg was the resilient one, with an extroversion and assertiveness that concealed her scars, perhaps even from herself. Brian’s good looks and quiet manner always drew others to him. Still, Brian was lonely and—unlike Meg—he knew it. But he would never buck his father, any more than he was capable of truly knowing him.

  “It really struck me on the Christmas before Brian applied to the academy. I helped host a party for Tony, and one of his oldest friends from Vietnam took a shine to Brian. He sat there, drink in hand, regaling Brian with stories of all that Tony had done, especially in times of war. It was a Scheherazade’s bounty of wonders Brian had never dreamed of, related by a man whom Brian had not known existed yet whose relationship to Tony seemed closer than Brian’s own. It was as if, to Brian, his father had become as much a myth as the dead McCarrans who had preceded him.” Rose shook her head. “I recall Kate listening, too. But she didn’t expect to have known these things—hearing them only increased her adoration for Tony, a substitute father figure for a girl who craved one. For Brian, they increased the burden of being Tony’s son.”

  “Yet Brian and Kate were close.”

  “Always.” Briefly, Rose smiled in recollection. “When Brian was commissioned, Kate said she could look right through Brian’s uniform and see the boy she used to read aloud to. Brian draws adoration without trying. It’s his gift—or was.”

  Terry watched her face. “And Kate and Meg?”

  “Were different. No doubt there was real affection. But I think Meg saw Kate as competition for what little Tony had to give. Both of them wanted a father.”

  “Is that why Kate was drawn to Joe?”

  A veil of caution fell across Rose’s eyes. “One can surmise all sorts of things,” she said, “but you don’t challenge a daughter’s pride by asking. At least not Kate’s.”

  This suggestion of a certain distance between mother and daughter, Terry thought, might conceal a reticence of Rose’s own. “You must have an impression,” he replied.

  “An indirect one—it all happened rather quickly.” Rose folded her hands. “They met at the Christmas party I just mentioned. Kate was visiting home from New York City; Joe was a newly commissioned second lieutenant, a friend of someone’s friend. He went for Kate like a laser—whatever Joe lacked in subtlety, he made up for in resolve. I was never certain he was a match for her, and Tony wondered, too. But Kate seemed overcome, as though Joe’s drive and determination lent him a certain authority.

  “As so often, the army played a role. It doesn’t recognize girlfriends or even fiancées. The only woman who can follow an officer is his wife. Kate became that in six months.”

  Terry waited for a moment. “What did Brian think of Kate’s marriage?”

  Rose hesitated. “Perhaps he told Kate,” she finally answered. “But I can only guess. Joe was combative and competitive, a blunt instrument who tended to bark out words without reflection. Everything Brian was not. But I never sensed any jealousy or friction.”

  Terry sat back. “I’d like to ask you about Kate’s marriage,” he told her. “That may be sensitive, I know. But it’s at the heart of what Brian and Kate told the CID and what they’re investigating now. I need to understand that.”

  Rose gave him a long, considering look. “What does Kate say?”

  “Among other things, that Joe struck her on the face repeatedly and once held a gun to her temple. And that she didn’t tell anyone for fear of ending his career.”

  For an instant Rose appeared shaken. “When Joe came back from Iraq,” she said at length, “he was palpably different—silent and volatile by turns. That much I knew. But if I’d known what you just told me, all of this never would have happened. I care more about my daughter and grandchildren than any officer’s career. Look at what’s come of that.

  “Missing parents are a theme here, Captain Terry. For Tony and Kate, a father; for Brian and Meg, a mother. Now there’s Mathew and Kristen. For children, that’s not the way it’s meant to be.”

  Terry paused again, parsing his emotions. “Brian did know,” he said. “As they both tell it, that’s what precipitated his confrontation with Joe.”

  “I see.” Her lips parted again, as though to add something. She did not.

  “For the CID,” Terry went on, “that raises other questions. After Joe and Brian returned from Iraq, do you think Brian’s relationship with Kate changed?”

  Rose met his eyes. “How do you mean, Captain?”

  “Whatever you think. Anytime I raise that question within the family, the person I’m asking becomes edgy.”

  “Perhaps because you’re so obviously implying an affair. I simply can’t imagine that.”

  “For Kate and Brian, Mrs. Gallagher? Or just for Brian?”

  “For both of them,” she answered tartly. “Which is all that matters here.”

  “Not to me, I’m afraid. Was Kate involved with someone else?”

  Rose stared at him. “Why do you assume that my daughter would have told me?”

  “Did she?”

  Rose steepled her fingers. “Kate told me once that I was always perfect. It was not a compliment. One doesn’t share their imperfections with the perfect.”

  “That’s not quite an answer, Mrs. Gallagher.”

  “It is an answer—mine.” Rose spoke more softly. “You seem like an empathetic man, Captain Terry. Perhaps even a good one. But you’ll be leaving us soon. And what good would it do you or anyone to know more than you do now? I don’t want my grandchildren hurt any further; I don’t want this family hurt any further. By which I mean the McCarrans, the Gallaghers, and the D’Abruzzos. I hope you can respect that.”

  Terry stood. “Let’s say I understand it. And I certainly respect you. Thank you for your time.”

  Rose extended a cool, dry hand. “I do want to help Brian, in whatever way I can. It’s best for everyone that this end soon.”

  “Including for me,” Terry answered. “I don’t like unfinished business.”

  PART

  II

  The Referral

  July 2005

  one

  ON THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, AT MAJOR FLYNN’S REQUEST, Paul Terry went to the trial counsel’s office. From the outset, Terry sensed that Flynn was toying with him.

  Passing him a steaming cup of coffee, Flynn said, “You should take another run at Brian McCarran.”

  “On what subject?”

  With his harshly angled face and bleak, watchful eyes, Flynn had the accusing aspect of a bitter saint. “Among other things, the murder weapon. We’ve found your client’s fingerprints on the magazine.”

  This was not what Flynn had called him for, Terry knew at once. He said nothing.

  “No reaction?” Flynn asked.

  “None. After D’Abruzzo threatened his wife, Brian checked the magazine to see if it was loaded. Both he and Kate said as much to the CID.”

  Flynn shook his head briskly, an expression of impatience. “That assumes they’re credible. Another interpretation is that he took the Luger and the bullets from D’Abruzzo’s town house, then loaded the gun himself, preparing to shoot D’Abruzzo in a premeditated ambush.”

  Shrugging, Terry asked, “Are Brian’s fingerprints on the bullets?”

  The glint that surfaced in Flynn’s green eyes converted the ascet
ic to a tactician. “They’re hard to lift. We found partial prints; they could have been McCarran’s or D’Abruzzo’s.”

  “Then your theory’s stillborn, Major.”

  He would not ask, Terry decided, if Flynn had anything more. After a moment, Flynn said, “I understand you spoke to Lauren Scott.”

  Steeling himself, Terry simply nodded.

  “Then you know that Mrs. D’Abruzzo was having an affair.”

  “I know she needed a babysitter.”

  Flynn leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk. “She took a room at the Marriott about five miles from here. She gave them cash, of course, so her husband wouldn’t see it on her credit card. But since 9/11 you have to show ID. So the room was registered to Katherine D’Abruzzo.”

  A kaleidoscope of thoughts flashed through Terry’s mind. “I assume you questioned people at the hotel.”

  Flynn nodded, closely watching Terry’s expression. “And showed them photographs. They identified Kate D’Abruzzo.”

  Terry cocked his head. “But not Brian McCarran.”

  “No,” Flynn conceded in a matter-of-fact tone. “But they recognized Joe D’Abruzzo.”

  The sheer surprise of this threw Terry off balance. Casually, he said, “Maybe they were escaping the kids.”

  “She was. But her husband surprised her. A bellhop saw him waiting in the lobby. When Mrs. D’Abruzzo got off the elevator, he confronted her. A quarrel ensued, and then the two of them left separately.” Flynn’s tone became cool and prosecutorial. “She’d checked in there several times before. She was having an affair, and her husband knew it. This puts a very different complexion on the family dynamic. As well as on all the events she and Lieutenant McCarran described—her quarrels with D’Abruzzo, Brian taking the murder weapon, the critical phone calls, her husband’s fatal visit to your client’s apartment. Not to mention McCarran’s credibility.”