In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  Terry wondered whether Rose, had she married Anthony McCarran, would have functioned as a counterweight. Perhaps Meg wondered, as well.

  “And now Brian resents him for it,” Terry said.

  “That’s complicated, too. No one had to give me permission not to be my father—I couldn’t be. But Brian was a McCarran male.” Meg took a deep swallow of brandy. “Look at how he reacts to PTSD. He’s livid that the VA is screwing his guys. But our dad never complained about combat stress in Vietnam. So for Brian to be a basket case is as unthinkable as being gay. Now I’m scared that he’ll kill himself, like our mother did.”

  With that admission, Meg lapsed into silence. Though she finished her brandy, for a time she barely looked at him. It was as though she had said too much and now feared what she had done.

  TERRY DROVE THEM BACK from the restaurant. On the way, Meg asked about his plans once he left the army.

  “A month in Europe,” he answered. “I could never afford to go. After that I’ll be doing defense work for a Wall Street firm, with most of my clients investment bankers in trouble.”

  She turned to him, the lights of an oncoming car illuminating a face that, when curious, became even more appealing. “Is that your dream job?”

  “It’s the means to my end. My dream has been to own my life and never worry about money again. But the money you make is never free—you pay for it with your time. At least my experience in the army will buy me a good quality of work.” Glancing at Meg, he added, “I’m not just a trial jock, Meg. I want to leave Brian in the best shape I can. At least with respect to the law.”

  She gave him a wispy smile. “I’m actually beginning to believe that.”

  Reaching the hotel parking lot, Terry glided to a stop near the entrance. “I’ve enjoyed our dinner,” he told her. “And you helped me quite a lot. Brian, too, I hope.”

  Meg gazed at him. Then, as though on impulse, she leaned across the console and gave him a swift but incisive kiss, its warmth lingering on his lips.

  Skin tingling, he laughed. “That was a surprise.”

  Meg’s grin turned oddly bashful. “Oh, I’m full of them. Sometimes I even shock myself. But don’t worry, Paul. I’ll still respect you in the morning.”

  Before he could answer, she opened the door and was gone.

  FOR SEVERAL HOURS, UNABLE to sleep, Terry thought of Meg. His thoughts were a jumble. She was attractive in far more than appearance; at times, he felt the shock of recognition—that she was his equal not just in capacity but in experiences few others shared. But she remained an enigma, as did her family. Thinking of her, he could not shake the sense that there were things she withheld, and might always withhold. And she was, in the end, his co-counsel.

  At last he drifted off. In early morning, he awoke from his nightmare, sweating.

  The images had changed. Now his father’s voice, reassuring Paul, came through a bathroom door in someone else’s house. Terry was afraid to open it.

  four

  THE NEXT MORNING, TERRY GLANCED AT HIS DESK CALENDAR and realized that he would leave the army in a little over two weeks. His thoughts had drifted back to Meg when the telephone rang.

  The caller was Captain Nathaniel Pace, a company commander in the battalion Joe D’Abruzzo had served as operations officer. More to the point, Pace explained, he’d been a classmate of D’Abruzzo’s at the Citadel, and had encountered him at the Officers’ Club less than a week before he died. “In all fairness,” Pace told him, “there’s something you should know.”

  His tone and phrasing suggested nothing good. Terry proposed that they meet as soon as possible.

  A LITTLE AFTER SEVEN, Terry found Pace sitting at the bar of the O Club—a black officer with an air of intelligence and self-containment, taking in the first inning of the Mets-Giants game. “I’m from San Francisco,” Pace explained. “Huge Barry Bonds fan, even if steroids give him a head like a medicine ball.”

  “Yeah,” Terry said. “I never knew that lifting weights would make your hat too small. Buy you a drink?”

  Pace glanced around the bar. “Let’s get a table, so we can talk.”

  They ordered two mineral waters and took them to a table beside the window. Terry had always liked this bar, with its dark-stained wood, leather chairs, and panoramic views of the Potomac. The club itself was a magnet for couples and families, with a dance band on Wednesdays, a seafood buffet on Friday nights, and banquet rooms for weddings or major celebrations. It was also, according to Kate, where her husband had gone after threatening her with his gun. By Terry’s calculation, this could have been when he had encountered Nate Pace.

  “So,” Terry said, “Joe D’Abruzzo. Pretty sad, for everyone.”

  Pace nodded, his smooth face troubled. “Yeah. Pretty sad.”

  Terry sipped his drink, waiting. Pace ran his fingers through the close-cropped bristle of hair. “Funny. Hadn’t been for Barry Bonds, Joe might not have noticed me. Would have been just fine by me.”

  “Tell me about it,” Terry said.

  SINCE HIS WIFE HAD left him, Nate Pace’s new quarters made him feel like an exile from the only life he had ever wanted. He started to put off going home by pausing at the O Club for a drink—there were people around, even if Nate wasn’t talking much, and the bartender knew to troll the TV baseball package in search of a Giants game.

  That night the Giants were playing in Philadelphia. Bonds had just hit one out; perched at the bar, Nate silently hoisted his CC and Coke, saluting his bloated hero as he ambled around the bases. “Cheater,” someone said from behind him in a thick, heavy voice. “I can’t stand cheaters. Or phonies.”

  Turning slowly, Nate saw Joe D’Abruzzo staring at the screen, and realized that Joe was offering random commentary that, however hostile, was not directed at Nate himself. It seemed like D’Abruzzo had been drinking for a while; his face was flushed, his eyes a little unfocused. Nate did not like drunks. He was about to turn away when D’Abruzzo spotted him. “Hey, Nate. How you been?”

  “So-so.”

  Joe nodded solemnly. “Yeah. I heard.”

  Nate figured everyone had, which didn’t mean that he cared to talk about it. “How about you?” he asked.

  Joe shook his head, the inebriate’s expression of sadness and commiseration. “Buy you a drink, Nate. We should catch up.”

  Beneath this suggestion of more camaraderie than Nate thought was warranted, Joe’s tone sounded half peremptory, half beseeching. At the Citadel the man had always been a little touchy. Weighing whether accepting or refusing would cause more grief, Nate resigned himself to abandoning the Giants. “One round,” he said. “Then I need to go.”

  They had sat at the table he and Terry occupied now. Moodily, Joe stared at the river in the gathering dusk, the darkening outline of woods on the other side. “So,” he persisted, “Janie bailed on you.”

  Jesus, Nate thought in exasperation, answering in the most grudging voice he could summon without rudeness. “That’s done.”

  “Too bad.” Joe scowled at his scotch, turning something over in his head. “Was there another guy?”

  Sometimes Nate wondered about this, but never in public. Stifling his annoyance, he said tersely, “Not that I know about. Seems like I’m a self-made man.” Out of curiosity and to divert the conversation, Nate asked, “Are you all right?”

  Joe stared at his glass. “No,” he said under his breath. “I’m not all right.”

  Nate waited for more. To his astonishment, tears surfaced in Joe’s eyes. Instead of trying to wipe them away, the big man shook his head. “You ever think you could actually kill a woman?”

  The bizarre question carried an undertone of anguish and confusion. Carefully, Nate said, “We talking about Iraq, Joe? Sometimes things happened there that no one meant to happen.”

  Joe looked up at him. “I was talking about wives.”

  Nate summoned a halfhearted laugh, then saw that Joe was serious. “Kill Janie?” he repeated. “No.
Maybe once or twice I wanted to send her to time-out and not cut her loose until she told me she was sorry. But that’s all.”

  Joe shut his eyes. His soft voice was laced with misery. “For years she was this prize I couldn’t believe I’d won. Tonight, I wanted to put a gun to her head and pull the fucking trigger.”

  Nate took this in, reprising his role as the officer people said was so good at counseling others. “If you really feel that way, Joe, you need help. They’ve got all sorts of good people here at Bolton.”

  “Too late.” The smile that flickered across Joe’s face was both melancholy and derisive. “No help for this one. Kate’s been fucking McCarran.”

  The shock Nate felt was physical. Though he had spoken to Brian McCarran only on occasion, his presence at Bolton was known to all—a striking blond man as handsome as a film star. Although Joe usually did not cotton to such types, Lieutenant McCarran seemed self-effacing and capable, a good guy trying to do his job without a lot of fuss. But adultery in the army was a crime: for any officer, but especially this kid, Joe’s assertion could be incendiary. Quietly, he responded, “That’s a heavy thing to say. You sure it’s so?”

  Joe bristled visibly. “You think I’d make up shit like this? Go around Bolton bragging that McCarran put the horns on me, like it’s a fucking badge of honor ’cause it’s him? I caught them.”

  This was bad, Nate knew, perhaps explosive. “If that’s true, it’s not just your marriage that’s in trouble. It’s this guy’s whole career.”

  “It’s my whole fucking life,” Joe burst out. “You don’t get it, Nate. I feel like my skull’s exploding.” His voice softened abruptly. “Kate loves him, always has. She said they’re family—that they didn’t mean for this to happen. But there’s more between them than Kate and I will ever have. Bring him down for this, and I blow up my marriage and lose my kids.”

  The waters were getting deeper. Every instinct Nate possessed told him to hear no more. “Get help,” he repeated. “This starts with you and her.”

  “You still don’t get it,” Joe said in a defeated voice. “It’ll destroy me.” Taking a deep swallow of whiskey, he said, “Don’t tell anyone about this. I mean it.”

  Sensing that the revelations were over, Nate felt relieved. “It’s not my story to tell, Joe.”

  Nodding curtly, Joe gulped the last of his drink and slapped a twenty on the table. Standing, he rested a hand on Nate’s shoulder, then walked away without saying another word.

  Nate turned to watch him leave. Except maybe for himself, he had never seen a man who looked more lonely.

  SITTING ACROSS FROM NATHANIEL Pace, Terry imagined a new, more human Joe D’Abruzzo, overcome by emotions he could not endure. Then he tried to absorb that Brian might have deceived him. Stifling his dismay, Terry asked, “How drunk was D’Abruzzo?”

  “Pretty drunk.” Pace paused, considering the question further. “He wasn’t out of it, though. Toward the end, talking about his marriage, he seemed to focus on what was happening to the family, and the consequences of whatever he might do. This was a guy in real pain.”

  Terry nodded. “Did he give you any details about this so-called affair?”

  “None. Of course, I knew who Brian was. I didn’t want to hear about it.”

  “So Joe said nothing about how he ‘caught’ them?”

  “No.” Pace pressed his lips together. “Here’s the thing, though. After the shooting, I brooded on this for a while. But this is about military honor, I decided—not saying what I knew would be like covering up for someone who could be cheating on his finals. Except this could involve something a helluva lot more serious.” He hesitated. “In the end, I had to call Major Flynn.”

  It was, as Pace suggested, a question of military honor. “I understand,” Terry assured him. “That’s why Brian has a lawyer.”

  But at that moment, Terry realized, he was also thinking of Meg.

  FLYNN WAS WORKING LATE. As he waved his adversary to a seat, Terry detected a glint of competitive pleasure; he was learning that Flynn could keep his face so immobile that the only clue to the prosecutor’s thoughts was in his eyes. Briskly, he asked, “What’s up, Captain?”

  “Nate Pace. I thought we should meet before this festered too long.”

  “I already know the argument,” Flynn responded in clipped tones. “As a matter of law, D’Abruzzo’s statement to Captain Pace is hearsay, inadmissible in a court-martial.”

  “For openers. It’s also vapor—without substance or detail. As to D’Abruzzo saying that he ‘caught them’—whatever that’s supposed to mean—it sounds like detritus from the alcohol-fueled imaginings of a guy already screwed up by combat. If you want to start beating your wife, it’s good to have such a sympathetic reason. There’s no basis for anyone to verify these ramblings.”

  Though Terry was far from certain of that, Flynn was briefly silent. “That’s true,” he conceded. “But tomorrow it may not be. I’m recommending that the commander prefer charges against Lieutenant McCarran and convene a pretrial investigation under Article 32.”

  Though startled, Terry saw at once where this was going. Feigning controlled outrage, he retorted, “On what ground, Major? The physical evidence is inconclusive. Pace’s story is inadmissible. There’s still no case.”

  A faint smile played on Mike Flynn’s lips, a deliberate goad. “Don’t play coy, Captain. Adultery provides a motive for murder, and lying about it suggests a consciousness of guilt.” He sat back, his voice cool and sure. “At the Article 32 hearing, I can try to call Kate D’Abruzzo as a witness. As to your client, he’s the only witness to the killing. Does he really want to invoke the Fifth Amendment? I needn’t insult your intelligence by walking you through Kate and Brian’s stations of the cross.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  “Nonetheless, I’m willing to do you a favor. Before I go to the staff judge advocate, I’ll give you time to talk to McCarran. And Mrs. D’Abruzzo, if she hasn’t already hired a lawyer of her own. She’s not subject to military law. But conspiracy to murder is still a crime in the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

  There was nothing else to say; Terry could see his hope of a safe exit for Brian slipping away and, with it, Meg’s chance of returning to the life she had created for herself. “I’ll do that,” he told Flynn.

  five

  WHEN MEG APPEARED AT TERRY’S DOOR, SHE SAID WITHOUT preface, “What is it, Paul?”

  “I think you’d better sit down.”

  She perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped and elbows on knees, as though hunched to receive a blow. At this moment, Terry felt so deeply sorry for her that he almost reached for her hand.

  “Flynn has a witness from D’Abruzzo’s battalion,” he told her. “The short of it is that D’Abruzzo showed up drunk at the Officers’ Club, apparently on the night Kate says he threatened her. He told this man she was ‘fucking McCarran.’ ”

  Meg bowed her head a little more, a tightly balled fist held to her lips. “What else did he say?”

  “That’s all,” Terry answered. “But Flynn thinks it’s enough to prefer charges against Brian under Article 32.”

  She looked up at him, eyes widening. It was almost as if, Terry thought, she could not comprehend what he was saying. “Against Brian,” she repeated, “for murdering Joe D’Abruzzo. Because of a single phrase mumbled by a drunk.”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head, as though to clear it. “It’s not evidence, Paul.”

  “I know. But Flynn believes it’s true. He means to use an Article 32 hearing to corner Kate and nail Brian.”

  She ran a fingertip across her eyes. Beneath this distracted gesture, Terry imagined her trying to discipline her thoughts. “How would that work?” she asked.

  “It’s like a pretrial hearing. In a case of this magnitude, it’s likely that the hearing will be presided over by a military judge who serves as investigating officer for the ‘convening authority’—General Heston
, the commander of Fort Bolton. If there’s sufficient evidence to establish probable cause, the investigating officer will recommend that Heston convene a general court-martial.”

  “Do we have the right of cross-examination?”

  “Yes. We could also call our own witnesses and put on a defense, though I probably wouldn’t recommend that. Why tip your hand if there’s a good chance you’ll face a court-martial?” Terry’s voice softened. “The real problem is that Flynn won’t just charge Brian with murder, but with adultery.”

  “Based on hearsay.” Meg objected. “Talk about overprosecuting. What if Brian wasn’t Kate’s lover?”

  “He’d have to say that on the stand, or risk conviction. If that’s a lie, he’d be risking perjury charges. Or he can take the Fifth.”

  Terry stopped there, waiting for Meg’s normally quick mind to catch up with him. “Kate’s a civilian,” she said. “The army’s got no jurisdiction to try her for Joe’s murder—or for adultery. Can they force her to testify at a preliminary hearing?”

  “No. And I damned well hope she doesn’t volunteer.” Terry leaned forward. “Flynn would make her choose between telling the truth about her and Brian—whatever that is—or risk federal prosecution for perjury. Not an attractive option for a widowed mother of two young kids.

  “It’s certainly hardball—prosecutions for adultery are pretty rare. But Flynn thinks that Brian is a murderer and that an affair with Kate spells motive. It would also mean that both of them lied to the CID. Which is not a helpful fact when you’re trying to refute a murder charge.”

  “Only if they did lie. I still don’t believe it, and Flynn can’t prove it.” Meg’s voice lowered. “As you once pointed out, his only witness is dead.”