Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(56)

A siren whoop-whooped in the distance.

Sherri shook herself and pushed up from the table. She moved around the kitchen, touching boxes, closing cupboards and reopening them. She stopped by the window.

She said, “War never ends, does it? Even after they sign peace agreements or armistices or cease-fires or whatever the hell it is the politicians do. It just goes on and on. You can’t escape. You can’t rewind. War changed Jeremy, and when he tried to fix things, it sucked him back in.”

“Is that what he said?”

Forgetting her half-full mug on the table, she yanked another out of one of the boxes and splashed coffee into it. She didn’t seem to notice when coffee spilled on the counter. “He thought I needed to be protected. He decided for himself that I couldn’t take it. But that was all on him—he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“I’m sorry.” And I was.

“You’re with someone, aren’t you?”

“Jury seems to be out at the moment.”

“Things come and go. Doesn’t matter what you plan.” She blew her nose. “Do you talk to him about Iraq?”

“No.”

“And here I thought women were smarter than men.”

A weight settled onto my chest. Weight with a capital W, Nik Lasko used to say. Heaviest pounds you’ll ever carry.

“So what made you think this was about the war?” I asked.

“He finally told me it was Lester Crowe who called.”

“One of his fireteam members.”

“Crazy Crowe. That’s what Jeremy called him. Not in a mean way. In a . . . a Jeremy way.”

“He and Crowe talk often?”

“Almost never. But that’s Crowe. He disappears for months at a time. Pops back up like nothing happened.”

“And did his calls always upset Jeremy?”

“Not like this one. They made him sad and worried. But not angry. And not scared. Then . . . this.”

“Did he tell you what they talked about?”

“No. But whatever it was . . . things got weird after that.”

“How so?”

“Jeremy is—Jeremy was always protective of us. But after that night, he got paranoid. First he tried to get me and the girls to move in with my parents. When I refused, he ordered an alarm service we can’t afford. And twice I found him up in the middle of the night. He said he couldn’t sleep. But he had a gun. We agreed we wouldn’t have guns in the house.” Another plaintive look. “I think he was going crazy.”

“No, Sherri. He wasn’t.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

I decided it was time she understood a little of what her husband had been through. If I ever managed to crack this case and expose the Alpha, it was better she heard it from me, not on the five o’clock news.

Plus, I didn’t want her thinking Kane had been crazy.

“What you said about war never ending, it’s true,” I said. “The war is still here. There’s something you need to know. A group of us were involved in something in Iraq. Jeremy and his fireteam. My commanding officer and me. It was something we should not have done. Something wrong.”

She held up a hand like a stop sign. “That’s not possible.”

I trotted out the same words I’d used with Cohen. They were starting to feel thin. “We thought we were saving Americans.”

“No.” She set the coffee down on the counter and folded her arms. “You’re wrong about Jeremy. He would never be involved in anything wrong.”

A memory rose.

The Sir and I climbed out of our vehicle, and the Sir’s flashlight caught the faces of the men. They were all masked. Until they’d spoken, I’d thought they were Iraqis.

“This is fucked,” one of them said.

“Who cares?” one of the others asked. “They killed Renks. And Haifa.”

That’s when I realized they were Marines. I’d looked at the Sir, bewildered.

But all he’d said was, “Let’s get this done,” before he led me into the house.

I shuddered.

Sherri was looking at me like maybe I didn’t have full ownership of my marbles.

“He was trying to do the right thing,” I said. “We all were. War . . . it jumbles up what’s right and what’s wrong. You get tunnel vision.”

Fury flared in her eyes. “Is this why you came here? I’ve lost my husband. Are you trying to destroy his memory, too?”

“His death wasn’t random.”

“Why would you do that? Take what little I have?”

“Sherri, please. I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

Her nostrils flared. “You need to leave.”

“Sherri—”

“Now.”

I stood. “It’s the truth. You need to know.”

“Get out!”

We stared at each other across the bright and shiny kitchen—Sherri’s domain that the exterior of the house couldn’t match. I had to admire her righteous anger. But she was picking the wrong fight. I wasn’t the enemy.

Krystal appeared in the doorway, armed with her own look of righteous fury.

“What are you doing?”