“FDIC tags and all,” Seelye said. “I’d have to match it up to make sure, but it looks like the shipment that was stolen from Balad.”
Tony frowned.
“Excellent work, Chief Nichols.”
The employees’ entrance slammed open. Russ leaped from his seat, his Glock already in his hand. He broke from the blind, empty cardboard boxes tumbling into the boots and black-clad legs of the men pounding up the corridor, and he shouted, “Stop! Police!” hearing his voice huge, reverberating off the walls, many voices, all screaming, “Stop! Police!”
A helmeted and armor-clad man skidded, faced him, M-9 semiautomatic braced and ready, bellowing, “Police! Put your weapon down! Put your hands in the air!”
From the other side of the hall, Russ heard Lyle roaring the exact same words. They were everywhere: shouted commands and weapons and body armor and bright yellow letters screaming MILITARY POLICE.
Russ reversed his Glock and raised his hands. The MP opposite him tore the sidearm from his grasp and shoved him around. “Lyle, give up your gun,” Russ yelled.
The guy behind him pushed him hard enough to make him stumble. “Shut up!”
“MKPD, put up your weapons!” They could sort out this disaster, but if someone got shot-
“I said shut up and get on the floor!” His MP’s voice was on the edge of wild. He shoved Russ with the bore of his M-9 this time. Russ shut up. He got down, one knee and then the other, but he was too slow for the kid behind him. The MP slammed him forward, jolting the breath out of his body. Russ lay panting on the cold concrete, craning his head to see while the MP cuffed him. He spotted Nichols cuffed and on the floor, saw the CID captain down on both knees, hands in the air and his mouth going a mile a minute, saw Seelye, dark shirt yanked aside, unstrapping the wire taped to her T-shirt. She was talking to an officer in BDUs whose body armor and MILITARY POLICE vest looked at odds with his fleshy body and fifty-something face.
She glanced down. Blinked. Blinked again. “Chief Van Alstyne? What the hell are you doing here?”
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 18
This time, the fight started because Eric was putting on a uniform.
“What are you doing?” Jennifer’s voice caught him up short, laying out his BDUs after his shower. “It’s Tuesday. You don’t have anything Guard-related.”
He had figured no one at the resort would answer his questions if he was in civvies, unless he wanted to misrepresent himself as a plainclothes detective. On the other hand, he was pretty sure no one would call his reserve unit to ask why one of their MPs was at the hotel, interviewing the human resources director. Not that that made it any less of a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. He was edgy, already having second thoughts, and that was why he snapped at her instead of just blowing it off.
“What are you, my personal calendar?”
“You haven’t done anything except mope around the house and go to those useless veterans group meetings since you got suspended. Now all of a sudden you’re getting ready to report? What’s going on?” She paled. “Oh, Jesus. You’re not converting your enlistment to regular army, are you?”
“No.” He tugged on his pants.
“Then what?”
He spun around. “I’m trying to help out a friend by asking a few questions. That’s all. For chrissake, get off my back.”
“Asking a few questions? You mean, like pretending you’re working as an MP? You can’t do that, Eric. If you get caught you could face charges. You could lose your job!” She moved in close, forcing herself into his line of sight. “For God’s sake, what are we supposed to do if you get bounced off the force? You’re in a precarious enough position as it-”
“Why can’t you for one frigging time just support me?” He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and began yanking his socks on. “Why is it always criticizing and fault-finding and looking at me like I’m a goddamn monster because of what I have to do?”
“What are you talking about?” She stepped back.
“I am trying, Jen. I am trying all the time, and you never notice, and you never appreciate it. You have no idea what I’ve been through!”
“Then tell me! For the love of God, I’m here! I’m listening!”
He picked up one boot. “You don’t want to hear it.”
She made a strangled noise and spun around in a circle, something she did when she got too frustrated to stand still. “No, you just don’t want to face your feelings. Because it’s easier to get angry than it is to let yourself feel scared, or sad, or helpless.” She jammed a finger toward him. “You’re too cowardly to-”
“Mom?” Jake was standing in the doorway, staring, his eyes huge and afraid, his hands clenched in fists as if he were ready to wade into-
– to protect his mother-
– and the feeling roared over Eric, swamping him, and he rose, screaming, “Get out of here!” and hurled the boot, snapped it, hard, and it smashed Jake in the chest and sent the boy stumbling back into the hall.
Then the tide washed out again and he was standing there, dumbfounded, his hand empty, his son sobbing. His son, to whom he had never raised a hand in his life.
“Jake?” Eric’s voice came out cracked and raw. “Oh, God, son, I’m sorry-” He moved toward the door, but Jennifer was there, blocking him.
“Jake.” Her voice was calm. She never took her eyes off Eric. “Honey, I want you to get the big black duffel bag in your room, and your backpack, and get into my car. Can you do that, lovey?” Jake sniffled an assent and staggered off down the hallway.
“I need you to sit back down on the bed, Eric.”
He backed up blindly and collapsed onto the bed. Jen crossed to her closet, still keeping her eyes on him. She bent down, reaching behind her, and pulled out her overnight bag.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Right now, Jake and I are going to my sister’s. I’m going to contact you in a few days and let you know what I’ve decided to do.”
She didn’t put anything in the bag. He realized she had already packed. She had prepared for this. She was leaving him.
He lunged off the bed and grabbed her by the arm. “Jen. For God’s sake!”
She looked at his hand, wrapped around her forearm. Then she looked at him. “You can hurt me, Eric, but you can’t hurt me enough to make me leave my son in danger.”
He snatched his hand away, and a terrible sound broke out of his tight chest and aching throat. Jennifer backed away, one step, then another, and then she was gone; down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, out of his life.
He stood in the bedroom for a long time afterward. Then he wandered through the house, touching tabletops and pictures, stacking the books Jake had left behind. Finally, he went into the basement and unlocked the gun cabinet. He looked at his rifle and his.44 and the youth Remington he’d gotten Jake the Christmas before he deployed. He took out his Heckler & Koch 9 mm, his favorite for target practice, and he sat in the rocking chair by the television and rocked and rocked, holding the gun in his hands. He’d have to go back upstairs and unlock the ammo if he wanted to use it, of course. That was the right way to store guns. Not like the McNabbs, who had kept their firearms loaded. He thought about Tally McNabb, maybe feeling as bad as he was right now. All she had to do was take it out and pull the trigger. Permanent headache relief. He indulged in a little wouldn’t-they-be-sorry fantasy, but it kept breaking into the reality of Jake or Jennifer having to see him with his brains blown off. “Jesus, Eric,” he said to himself. “Teen drama, much?”