Rough Creek

by Kaki Warner

  He blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Yes.”

  “Most of them have an app for that.”

  “For what?”

  “Notes, dictation, recording conversations. Or in your case, interviews. You don’t have to write it all down. Your phone can probably do it for you.”

  He pulled out his cell, looked at it, then looked back at her. “Really?”

  And there was the eye roll he’d half expected. “I’m tired, Murdock. I don’t want to talk any more. If you need verification of why we went to Farid’s, talk to Samira.”

  A pause, then, “Samira’s dead. Her body was found last night.”

  She made a sound—part cry, part moan. Then she did that vomiting thing again, and one of her machines started beeping, and nurses rushed into the room.

  Which ended the interview.

  * * *

  * * *

  KD didn’t want it, but they gave her a sedative and another dose of the pain meds. Once they kicked in, she was able to stop vomiting and finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. Five hours later, she awoke to see another liquid dinner on the rolling table thing by her bed, and Warrant Officer Murdock dozing in the chair.

  His head was thrown back, his mouth sagging open. Long legs stretched past the end of the bed. His elbows rested on the armrests, hands clasped over his belt, and he was snoring. The picture of relaxation. She wanted to hit him. Wake him up and ask him why he’d told her about Samira in such an abrupt way.

  But she had known, even before he had said the words. The regret had been in his face, the way his eyes had slid to the side just before he spoke. He didn’t like telling her any more than she liked hearing it.

  Another death, another loss. Soldiers were supposed to accept losing friends and brothers. Casualties of war. Maybe she wasn’t such a good soldier after all. Maybe she should have stayed home in Texas, where her biggest problem would have been staying off Mama’s radar and figuring out what to do with her life that didn’t involve horses or cattle.

  Had her family even been notified that she’d been shot? Were they wondering why she’d missed their weekly FaceTime call?

  With a weary sigh, she studied the man in the chair.

  Murdock wasn’t as old as she had originally thought. Early thirties, maybe. But she guessed in his job, he had heard enough lies and witnessed enough terrible things to prematurely age him and put that weary, cynical look in his eyes. She hadn’t seen him smile, and wondered if he found anything worth the effort. He might be a handsome man if he ever did. Another casualty of war—the capacity for joy. That’s what she had admired most about Nataleah—her ability to bring a smile to those around her, to make them feel a little less alone.

  Irritated at where her thoughts were headed, KD reached out to pull the rolling table with her dinner tray closer and accidentally knocked the pink barf bowl off the nightstand. Luckily, it was clean. But it landed with a clatter that brought Murdock bolting upright in his chair.

  “What?” he almost shouted, blinking and looking around. When he saw her leaning over the side of the bed and the bowl upended on the floor, he immediately rose. “Are you sick again? Should I call the nurse? I’ll call the nurse.”

  “Don’t,” she blurted out before he’d gone two steps. “I’m okay. I accidentally knocked it off when I reached for my dinner tray.” And even that simple effort had been exhausting. Fearing another bout of lightheadedness, KD slumped back against the pillows. “I’m okay.”

  He picked up the bowl and set it back on the nightstand, then positioned her rolling table closer so that it crossed her lap. He studied the items on the tray. “That’s all you get?”

  Unwilling to go into an explanation of postsurgical bowel function, she simply said “For now,” and punched the button on her bed to raise the back so she could sit up. Which didn’t work as well as she’d hoped, since she’d slid down in her sleep so that the bend hit just below her shoulder blades. She tried to scoot up, then inhaled sharply when a jolt of pain ran through her.

  “Here. Let me help.” And before she could stop him, Murdock grabbed her under the arms and bodily lifted her higher. His hands were so big, his thumbs reached past her collarbones. It hurt so much it stole her breath away, or she might have started shouting at him.

  Once he’d pulled the covers up, he pushed the edge of the table into her chest and stood back, a pleased look on his stubbled face. “Better?”

  “Much,” she gasped, terrified he might do something else to accidentally hurt her.

  He started to open her various little juice and tea containers, but seeing he had a hard time with the tiny tabs on the seals and fearing those big hands would make a mess of it, she waved him away. “I can do that. Thanks anyway.”

  “Okay.” He looked around for something else to do, spotted the pink plastic water pitcher on the nightstand, grabbed a cup, and started pouring. “Anything else?” he asked, only spilling a little of it as he put it on her tray.

  “You’ve done more than enough.”

  “Well. Okay, then. Feel up to a few more questions? I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”

  KD took a sip of lukewarm broth. “Get what over with? My career?” She said it as a joke.

  He didn’t smile. Probably used to being snarked at.

  He let out a deep breath and rested one of those farmer’s hands on the butt of the pistol holstered at his hip. She wondered how he got his index finger through the trigger guard. “I’m not trying to jam you up, Lieutenant. I see no fault in what you did. But you were right in thinking CENTCOM is looking for a way to make this go away as soon as possible.”

  She moved on to the cranberry juice. “And they figure to use me?”

  “I already told them you killed Farid in self-defense.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Some might see your going to Farid’s as a violation of DOD policy.”

  She set the cup down so hard juice sloshed over the side. “But I explained that. We went as a courtesy to a distraught mother.”

  “Whose idea was it to go? Yours, or the Captain’s?”

  “Mouton’s. But I backed her.” KD wiped the spilled juice from her fingers, then slapped the napkin back onto the tray. “This is ridiculous! You know what Farid had planned for the kid, don’t you? An eight-year-old boy. It’s disgusting.”

  “I agree. If Mouton hadn’t already decided on going, would you have suggested it?”

  KD was the one who had made the biggest mistakes—not checking Farid for a gun, not going back to the front room when the argument escalated to shouts. Why did he keep asking about Nataleah? “Maybe not. I’ll admit, I was worried about the policy of looking the other way in such matters. But I’d like to think I’d have done the moral thing. Farid was an animal. He needed to be stopped.”

  “I agree with that, too. I just question your captain’s reasoning.”

  “She was a good soldier!”

  “I’m not disputing that.”

  “Then why are you trying to drag her reputation through the mud?” KD was shaking now. Furious that her captain and friend wasn’t here to defend herself. “I will never say anything against Captain Mouton,” she said in a voice that shook with fury. “No matter what you throw at me!”

  “I can’t believe this!” He stomped away, then whirled and came back. Frustration poured off of him like sweat. KD could almost smell it. “Captain Mouton doesn’t need you to defend her,” he said in clipped tones. “She did what she felt she had to do. I respect that. But now it’s time for you to do the right thing and tell the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth!”

  “Then try telling it with fewer words and less emotion!”

  Sexist pig. KD pressed a hand against the throbbing in her side and reminded herself to stop shouting. A nurse ca
me up to the window, a questioning look on her face. KD waved her away.

  Obviously trying to tamp down his irritation, Murdock said with tight lips, “If you’re ever called for an Article 32 hearing, Lieutenant, I advise you to get some coaching. A lot of coaching.”

  “Go to hell. I’m done talking to—”

  “Then try listening for a change! I’m trying to help you, here. You go ballistic like this before a judge or an Article 32 panel, you not only risk a big blot on your record, but you could be dismissed from service altogether. Is that what you want?”

  The words hit KD like a blow. Was he serious? A dismissal was the commissioned officer’s equivalent of an enlisted soldier’s dishonorable discharge. Would the army really do that to her?

  Murdock took a long deep breath and let it out. Some of the anger seemed to go with it. “Look. I’m not trying to throw blame on you or your captain,” he told her. “But you’re the only surviving witness to what happened that night. It’s important that you understand the kind of scrutiny you’ll face. I’m only suggesting that when you’re questioned—and you will be, I’m afraid—you don’t give out more information than necessary. Stay on point and give simple answers. Don’t try to sidestep anything, and don’t get defensive. Just tell the truth.”

  The fight went out of her. He was right. If she didn’t get ahold of herself, she could ruin everything. “You really think they’ll convene an Article 32 hearing?”

  He shrugged and looked away. “I doubt they’ll like my version of the facts. They’ll probably want to ask you the pertinent questions themselves.”

  “But we did nothing wrong. We just went there to talk to him.”

  “I know.”

  “If you report everything I’ve told you, and they still convene a hearing, does that mean they’ve already decided I’ve done something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “An Article 32 isn’t a court-martial. It’s an inquiry into the facts to decide if any charges should be brought. Like what a civilian grand jury does, except in this case, you have a lawyer with you and you can question witnesses. If you don’t lose your temper, and answer the panel’s questions calmly with short, truthful responses, they’ll probably decide not to charge you.”

  “Questions like what? And how do I stay calm when I’m being accused of something I didn’t do?”

  “Not accused. Questioned. For instance: Whose idea was it to go to Farid’s?—Answer: Captain Mouton’s.

  “Did the Captain order you to go?—No.

  “Then why did you?—Female soldiers are not supposed to leave the inner forward operating base alone at night.

  “Did you knowingly disregard the DOD noninterference policy?—No. We’re the cultural support team. Our primary mission is to offer help and support to Afghan women in hopes they will aid us in identifying local insurgents and insurgent activity. It’s a fine line. We work hard not to cross it.

  “Then why did you confront Captain Farid?—A local woman told us Farid had taken her son. We agreed to talk to the captain in hopes he would release the boy. We didn’t anticipate Farid would be combative and high on cocaine.

  “Who fired the first shot?—Captain Farid. After he shot and killed Captain Mouton, he shot me in the back. I was forced to return fire in self-defense. Period.”

  It sounded so reasonable the way Murdock said it. But how could she shove all the anger and fear and grief aside and answer so calmly? It was her life, her future that hung in the balance.

  “You’re not at fault here, Lieutenant,” he said in a gentler tone. “You need to believe that so they can believe it, too.”

  She nodded. It was a lot to take in. Especially when she’d made mistakes that had cost Nataleah her life. That was the hardest thing to get past. She looked at Murdock and saw that his anger had dissipated, too. He seemed as troubled by all this as she was. “Why are you trying to help me?”

  He shrugged. “Because you’re probably a good soldier. Because I don’t want the army to use you as a scapegoat for their mistake. But mostly, because I might have done the same thing.”

  She gave a weary smile. “Thank you for that. And for telling me what I’m up against. I appreciate your honesty.”

  He shrugged again and looked away. Not comfortable with compliments, she guessed. Probably didn’t get many in his job.

  “So how long until I find out what they’re going to do?” she asked.

  “Once I present my findings, CenCom will probably request an Article 32 panel to cover their butts. They’ll have a hundred and twenty days to decide whether to bring charges or not.”

  Four months. July. Would she even be well enough by then to withstand such an ordeal? “If they do bring charges, will you testify on my behalf?”

  “Be glad to.” He bent to retrieve his notepad and pen from the nightstand.

  “Thank you. But clean up first,” she added.

  He straightened, dark brows raised in question. “Pardon?”

  “You could use a shave, Warrant Officer Murdock.”

  For a moment, he looked surprised. Then a laugh burst out of him. A real laugh, one that showed a flash of white teeth, and crinkled the corners of his blue eyes, and changed a grim face into one that had a lot of appeal. “And you could use a hairbrush, Second Lieutenant Whitcomb.”

  “I’ll try to rustle one up.”

  “See that you do. Just remember what I said, and you’ll do fine.” He turned toward the door, calling over his shoulder as he stepped into the hall, “Probably see you stateside before this is over.” Then, with a backhand wave, he was gone.

  The room seemed bigger without him. And quieter. But that laugh echoed through KD’s mind for a long time.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kaki Warner is a RITA-winning author and longtime resident of the Pacific Northwest. Although she now lives on the eastern slopes of the Cascade Mountains in Washington, Kaki grew up in the Southwest and is a proud graduate of the University of Texas. She spends her time gardening, reading, writing, and making lists of stuff for her husband to do, all while soaking in the view from the deck of her hilltop cabin.

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