One Was a Soldier

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like you said, we ought to at least consider the possibility that she was killed. If McNabb was involved with something criminal, that would open up some new lines of inquiry for us.”

  Colonel Seelye smiled faintly. “I assure you, Chief Van Alstyne, as far as the army is concerned, not showing up for work is a crime. Let me ask you something. Other than the autopsy, what is your evidence for suicide?”

  “Well”—the chief hitched his thumbs in his gun belt and spread his legs a little—“we checked for a note, like I said, and we went over her credit card statements and her mortgage book to see if she had money troubles.”

  “Did she?”

  “Not that we could tell.” He scratched the back of his head. In the two years she had been on the force, Hadley had never seen him do that. It made him look like a hayseed.

  There was something wrong here. The chief was the original what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy. Why was he suddenly acting like an ignorant small-town sheriff?

  “You know, it would be very helpful to us if we could take a look at her effects,” the colonel said.

  “For someone AWOL?” The chief huffed a laugh. “Why on earth for?”

  Colonel Seelye tilted her head. “She may have had help in keeping out of sight and off the battalion’s radar screen, so to speak. If she had any accomplices, we’d like to know.”

  “Hmn.” The chief rubbed his chin. “Well, the problem with that is, this is Wyler McNabb’s house, and you’ve got no cause to enter a civilian’s home.”

  “He’s wanted for questioning in a violent death.”

  “Yeah, but wanted ain’t proved, as we say up here. If he checks out clean, my department could be in a heap of trouble if we let some army investigators paw through his things.” He grinned at the MPs. “Unless you think her being AWOL had some bearing on her being dead.”

  Seelye shook her head. “No, of course not.” She smiled back at the chief. “Still, you can understand our position, can’t you? If we have soldiers evading their sworn duty, morale drops, training suffers, and eventually, you have men and women in harm’s way who know that their brother and sister soldiers have sold them out.” She clipped her jaw shut, as if she realized she had gone overboard.

  “That’s a problem, all right.” The chief frowned. “Tell you what, let me run it by Judge Ryswick. If he says it’s okay, we’re covered. I wouldn’t have an answer for you until at least tomorrow, though. Are you staying in the area?”

  Colonel Seelye unbuttoned her jacket and slipped her hand into an inside pocket. “Let me give you my cell number.” She retrieved a business card and a pen. She flipped the card over and scribbled on the back. “Just give me a call as soon as you know. Fort Drum isn’t nearby, but it’s not at the other end of the country.”

  She handed her card to the chief, who took it, smiling. “I’ll do that.”

  “Then we’re all set for now.” She looked at the private. “Let’s go.”

  The younger man nodded. He headed for their car, the colonel two steps behind him.

  “And let me just say, on behalf of my whole department”—the chief had the solemn sincerity of a six-dollar Hallmark card—“thank you for your service.”

  Both the MPs paused. A twinge passed over Colonel Seelye’s face so fast Hadley would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching her closely. “Um. Thank you, Chief Van Alstyne.”

  The chief stood there, a sticky-sweet smile on his face, as they got into the government car and as they drove away. When the MPs were out of sight, the smile dropped away. His face set in grim lines.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I’m not sure, but it wasn’t about Tally McNabb being AWOL.” He dug his phone out of his pants pocket. “When a soldier’s missing, the battalion’s military police post sends a couple low-level warrant officers out. Like you and Kevin hauling in someone who’s blown off a court date.” His eyes narrowed. “That colonel is an investigator. She doesn’t waste her time on fugitive specialists. She’s not attached to the 10th Soldier Support Battalion in Fort Drum, New York, either. She’s with the U.S. Army Finance Command. Which is based in Indianapolis.”

  “How could you tell?”

  He tapped his shoulder. “Her patches.” He flipped open the phone. Thumbed a number. “Hi, Lyle? Russ. I have a question about the paperwork you went through at McNabb’s house.” He paused. “You said she was pretty well organized, right? Did you see any documents related to her service? Could have been enlistment papers, evaluations—yeah? Okay, did you see anything indicating she had been discharged or separated?” He nodded to the phone. “Okay. Thanks.” Another pause. “I’ll catch you up at the five o’clock. ’Bye.” He flipped the phone shut. “Lyle says she had her whole service record in one folder. Including discharge papers from this past May.”

  * * *

  “Is it a bad time?” In the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through Will Ellis’s hospital window, Clare could see the white-coated outline of the man sitting next to the bed, but she couldn’t make out the details.

  “No, it’s me.” Trip Stillman stood up. “I’m not officially here. I mean, I’m not here as Will’s doctor.”

  Clare came into the room, half-closing the door behind her. “I’m not officially here, either.”

  “Does that mean you’re not here as my priest or not here as my mom’s friend?” Will’s voice was weak but welcome. The fact that he had already been moved to a regular room was a testament to his physical strength.

  “I guess I’m here as your brother in arms. Sister in arms?” She took Will’s hand. “How are you doing?”

  “Better.” He gripped her hand. It felt like a small child squeezing a stuffed animal. “Really. Better. There’s this hospital counselor I’ve been talking to, and Sarah’s come to see me…” He took a breath, as if speaking two sentences in a row tired him out. “Mostly, I was finally honest with my parents about how freaking mad I’ve been.” He looked at Clare. “It was like you said, remember? Everybody wanted so much for me to feel better. It was like I was letting the team down if I felt pissed off or screwed over.”

  “How do you feel now?” Clare asked.

  “Like I want my damn legs back. Every minute of every day, I wish I was normal again. That’s not going to change.” He shook his head, a slow roll back and forth against the hospital pillow. “But, Jesus, I’m glad I’m not dead.”

  Stillman leaned forward and awkwardly touched Will’s shoulder. “We’re all glad you’re not dead.”

  Clare took a deep breath. “Listen. I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s not good news, but I think you should hear it first from me instead of stumbling over it in the paper or something.”

  Stillman rose. “I’ll give you your privacy, then.”

  “No, Trip, wait. This is for you, too.” The doctor sank back into his chair, frowning. Clare blanked for a moment. Then she remembered what Russ had said once about delivering bad news. Get to the worst of it fast. “Tally McNabb was found dead at her home yesterday afternoon.”

  “What?” Both men spoke at once.

  “She died from a single gunshot to the head. The police are investigating. They say it looks like suicide, but they can’t confirm it yet.”

  “Oh, God.” Will shut his eyes. “Did I—do you think she got the idea from me?”

  “No, I don’t. I was here the night they brought you in. I talked with her. There wasn’t anything in what she said or how she acted that made me think she wanted to do herself harm.”

  Stillman had slid his PalmPilot from his coat and was tapping through screen after screen. “I don’t think she was suicidal,” he said. “I don’t see anything here suggesting that was an issue.”

  Clare raised both eyebrows. “You keep notes on our therapy sessions?” Her voice was pointed.

  “Yes. Not to show them to anyone.” He sat stiffly upright. “It’s an old habit instilled in medical school
. Over the years, it’s been very useful. Lifesaving, at times.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little—” She cut herself off. One of their group was dead. Another hospitalized. Compared to that, a crack in the wall of confidentiality was nothing. “Never mind. I agree with you. About her frame of mind. I don’t think she killed herself.”

  “You mean she was murdered?” Will’s shocked voice was a reminder of how young he really was.

  “Do the police have a suspect?” Stillman asked.

  “They’re looking for her husband. He hasn’t been seen since sometime before her body was found.”

  Stillman nodded. “I’ve heard it’s usually the husband or boyfriend in situations like this.”

  “In Tally’s case, you can take your pick. She had an affair with an MP when she was in-country. He came looking for her twice this past summer.” Clare’s shoulders twitched. “Maybe he finally caught up with her.”

  They all sat with that thought for a while. Finally, Will said, “I feel like we let her down.”

  Clare shook her head. “No. What could we have done? She didn’t show any signs that she was in an abusive relationship.” Even as she said it, she thought of Tally’s disappearance back in the summer. Moving from friend to friend, eating at the soup kitchen.

  “She said she was tired of always being afraid. Remember?” Will looked to Stillman for confirmation.

  The doctor bit the inside of his cheek. “That phrase suggests to me she was tired of the fear you bring back with you.” He spoke carefully, doling out his words one by one. “The stuff you know is foolish, but you just can’t put it behind you. Like trying to find a mortar shelter when the town fire alarm whistle goes off.”

  “Or being afraid to fall asleep.” Clare didn’t realize she had spoken out loud until both men looked at her. She shrugged. “Nightmares.”

  “Me, too,” Will said. “What if that wasn’t it, though? What if she was afraid of something going on in her life right here and now?”

  “The MKPD is looking into it. They’ll get to the bottom of it.” She took his hand again and squeezed it, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of her head reminding her of how sure Russ had been that Tally’s death was a suicide.

  A pretty young girl stuck her head in the door. “Bookmobile,” she sang. “Ready to pick out a good read?”

  “I’d better go,” Clare said. “I don’t want to tire you out. I’ll be by tomorrow.”

  “As will I.” Trip Stillman pocketed his PalmPilot as he rose. “Tell your mother I said hi.”

  “Thanks. For coming to see me.” Will lifted his hand in a feeble salute.

  The bookmobile girl rolled back to let them out of the room. Clare recognized her as one of the youngest and chattiest of the hospital’s aides. In her apron and ponytail, she looked like a nurse in a World War II flick, come to bring cheer to the wounded boys.

  “I notice they’re not sending him the grandmotherly candy stripers,” she said.

  “Might as well give him an eyeful of what he has to live for.” Stillman pressed the elevator button. “My niece used to volunteer here. She would have loved to spend time with a good-looking boy Will’s age.”

  “Tell him that.”

  “I will.”

  Clare looked at her scratched and blurred reflection in the elevator’s doors. She was suddenly so tired she thought she might fall over. She leaned against the wall. “Do you think he’ll make it? Not now, I mean. In the long haul. Are his doctors just patching him up so he can try again?”

  “I don’t think so. Will’s already done the hardest work of recovery.”

  She made a little go-on gesture.

  “His life’s been divided into before and after, and he’s in the after.” The elevator pinged, and Stillman held the door open for her. “I think he’s finally accepted that. That’s the first step toward going forward.” He stabbed the floor button.

  The car jerked precipitously beneath them, and the lights dimmed.

  Clare heard the sounds of the mortars in the distance as she looked frantically around the bunker. Dim emergency lights, and the smell of mouse shit and rotting wood, and where was the chem hazard locker and where was the bulkhead door and where was her mask and the blare of the klaxon and the thud of the shells getting nearer and the slosh of the river water rising higher and higher—

  Clare found herself on the elevator floor, legs tucked, arms wrapped around her head. She opened her eyes. Trip Stillman was looking at her from exactly the same position.

  The car jerked again, upward, quivered, and then began its descent. For a second, she couldn’t move. It’s getting worse. It’s supposed to be getting better, but it’s getting worse.

  “Are you okay?” Stillman whispered.

  She scrambled to her feet. Stillman got up more slowly. “Like I said. The foolish stuff.” His voice was thin and dry.

  “Trip, I need sleeping pills and amphetamines and Tylenol Three.” Like falling into the duck-and-cover, the words came out without conscious control. “I had them when I came back and I’m almost out and I need more.” She looked at him. “I don’t have any good medical reason. I just need them. Will you help me?”

  He stared at her. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. They got out. He glanced at the people walking past them; a pair of doctors, a technician in scrubs, a man toting a potted plant. He beckoned her around the corner, into a niche formed by a vending machine and a stainless steel crib frame. “What have you been taking?”

  “I don’t know. They’re go pills and no-go pills. The only bags that had labels were the antibiotic and the Tylenol.” He frowned. “I’m cutting back on the sleeping pills. Really. With everything going on, I’ve been falling into bed at the end of the day. It’s just—” She swallowed. “When I wake up. If I have a nightmare. I need one then to get back to sleep.”

  “Are you mixing them with alcohol?”

  “Sometimes. Yes. Usually.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t need more, you need to get off them. Amphetamines and sleeping pills just feed into each other.”

  “I can’t!” To her horror, her voice cracked. “Trip, I’ve got nightmares and flashbacks and parishioners to take care of and a wedding to get through. I can’t talk to my spiritual adviser about this, and I’m not going to dump it on my fiancé. I just need to keep on an even keel for a few more weeks.”

  Trip looked at the floor. Finally, he sighed. “I won’t give you any painkillers. Forget about it.” He pulled out his PalmPilot. “I’ll give you a two-week prescription for Ambien and Dexedrine. Here’s the deal.” He speared her with a look. “You take the Dexedrine as prescribed—no more than ten migs a day, to start. No booze when you take the Ambien and for twelve hours after. I’m going to call you for a blood test some time during the next two weeks. If I find you’ve been mixing, I’ll cut you off. If I find you have a higher concentration of dextroamphetamine than you ought to, I’ll cut you off. No second chances, no do-overs.”

  She nodded.

  He tapped something into his PalmPilot. “I’m e-mailing myself the instructions. I’ll give you the scrip Monday, at group. Can you hold out until then?”

  She nodded.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this.” He rubbed the scar along his forehead.

  “Thank you.”

  He sighed again. “I’ll see you on Monday.” He looked for a moment as if he were going to say something else. Instead, he turned and walked away. She stayed against the wall, half hidden, for a moment, turning the whole thing over in her head. Telling herself she was going to be okay. Wondering if this was her own before and after.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 7

  Clare hadn’t taken a sleeping pill the night before, and she hadn’t had a nightmare, but she was still sodden with fatigue when she rolled out of bed at 6:30 A.M. for the 7:00 Eucharist. She debated taking an upper for twenty seconds before popping one in her mouth. By the time she closed the rectory door behind her, she was
feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, congratulating herself for making a smart choice.

  She wrapped up the Eucharist in thirty-five minutes and was standing by the great double doors, bidding farewell to the communicants—all seven of them—when Russ wedged his way past Mrs. Mairs into the narthex.

  “I didn’t expect to see you today. What are you doing here?” Clare asked.

  Mrs. Mairs tittered. “Can’t wait to see the bride-to-be. That’s a good sign.”

  Russ smiled patiently at the octogenarian before turning to Clare. “You said we had to go to the Stuyvesant Inn, remember? To okay the napkins or mints or whatever?”

  Clare waited until the last of the congregation left the narthex. She kicked away the stand and let the heavy double-braced door glide slowly closed on its hydraulic hinges. “I said I have to go. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.” She headed up the aisle. Russ fell into step beside her. “If I hadn’t been sure my mother never would have spoken to me again, I would have just asked Julie McPartlin to do the deed in her office.” She opened the door to the hallway. “It’s still awfully tempting.”

  He laughed. “You may be the only southern woman in existence who prefers elopements to white weddings.”

  She went into the sacristy. “Me and every other clergywoman. Do you know how many weddings I’ve officiated at? And I haven’t been ordained five years yet.” She stripped her alb over her head and snapped it to get the wrinkles out. “Another five years and I’ll run screaming when I hear the opening strains of Pachelbel’s Canon.” She slid the alb onto a wooden hanger and replaced it in the closet. “Which reminds me. If you have any musical preferences, speak now or forever hold your peace, because Betsy Young has announced she and the choir will be providing the wedding music as a gift to us.” She removed the stole from around her neck, kissed it, and draped it over a padded dowel with the others.

  “Hmn. I was thinking you could walk up the aisle to ‘She Drives Me Crazy.’”

  She gave him a look.

  “Then we could come back down to “Goody Two Shoes.’” He swiveled his hips in a surprisingly agile figure eight. “Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do?”