Home Front(40)

Michael wrote down PTSD and underlined it. “Did he ever hit Emily, to your knowledge?”

“In the last few days, before the … you know, I wondered about that. Keith was so edgy and upset. At a family dinner, he blew up at his brother over nothing. And the look in his eyes scared us all. It wasn’t our Keith. When I asked him about it, he told me he’d had too much coffee, but I didn’t believe him. I think whatever happened to him in Iraq is why he killed Emily.”

Michael added: What happened in Iraq? to his notes. Diminished capacity? “Did he get help?”

“He tried. The VA sent him away with a prescription for Prozac.”

Michael tapped his pen on the desk, thinking. So his client had tried to get help from the military and been denied. That was good. And hardly surprising. “Okay, Ed. I’ll do some research based on what you’ve just told me, but I need to talk to Keith, and I need Keith to talk to a psychiatrist. And I need it to happen quickly.”

“He won’t—”

“If he doesn’t, Ed, he’ll go to prison. Probably for life.”

Ed looked stricken by that, as Michael had intended. In the silence that followed, Michael sighed. “I don’t want to scare you, but I can’t help your son if he won’t talk to me. There are two sides to every story. I need his.”

“I’ll get him to talk,” Ed said.

Michael stared at him. “Do that, Ed, and fast.”





Ten



The first week at Fort Hood passed in a blur of classes, assignments, paper pushing, and lectures. It had been so many years since her active army days that Jolene had forgotten how much bureaucracy there was in ordinary military life, how much of a day was spent “hurrying up to wait.” She’d spent the last seven days standing in one line or another—or so it seemed. They stood in line for supplies, for lectures, for paperwork to be signed. There was the SRP—soldier readiness process—and more medical tests and examinations and shots, finance reviews, and updating of personnel records.

The day started early here at Fort Hood; breakfast was at 0430. Immediately afterward were classes on anything and everything they would need to know in Iraq: spiders and scorpions and IEDs—improvised explosive devices—sexual harassment, chemical warfare. The list went on and on. The worst of the lines were at the phones. Jolene had been advised to leave her cell phone at home, since it wouldn’t work in Iraq anyway. Following that advice had been a mistake. As it was, she spent much of her off-duty time standing in line to call home. More often than not, by the time it was her turn to use the phone, it was too late to talk to the girls. The few conversations she’d had with Michael had been short and stilted. Neither had said I love you before hanging up. Afterward, she felt more lonely than she had before the calls.

Now, Charlie Company was out beneath the blazing hot Texas sun, in full gear, walking along a dirt road the color of old blood. Jamie was in the lead. A lone hawk circled overhead curiously, no doubt wondering why these uniformed, helmeted adults, armed with M-16s and 9 mils, were running around in this heat. They kept pulling to the side of the road and looking for fictitious IEDs.

She knew it was important, lifesaving, even, but they were an aviation unit going in to provide support—backfill—for a combat aviation brigade. If she found herself on a road in Sadr City or Baghdad, in a Humvee, something had gone wrong enough that an IED would be only one of the worries.

And man it was hot.

By the time they finished that drill and made it out to the rifle range, Jolene was sweating so badly under her helmet that moisture ran into her eyes.

“Zarkades, get the hell down here!”

“Roger that, sir.”

She hustled to her place on the gun range and lifted her rifle. Aiming, she pulled the trigger.

“Good shot, Chief. Ten more just like that and you can start the live-fire course.”

For the next four hours, Jolene did as she was ordered: stand, sit, crawl, shoot, run. Afterward, she and Tami headed across the post, hoping the phone lines would be a little shorter at this hour.

They were wrong. At least forty soldiers were already in line, standing under the waning heat of the sun, reading, talking, listening to music.

Jolene slowed. “Damn.” She was about to turn around when she saw Smitty wave at her. He was fourth in line. Even with dirt and sweat running down his face, he looked young enough to be her son.

“Hey, Smitty,” Jolene said, heading toward him.

He smiled, showing off his braces. “Hey, Chiefs.”

Tami came up beside Jolene. “Are you calling your mom or is there some girlfriend pining away for you?”

“I’m holding this spot for you two,” he said. At their surprised look, he added: “I just remembered, my girlfriend’s still at work. I can’t call her for another hour. And besides”—he gave them both a sheepish grin—“I know I’d want to hear from my mom.”

Smitty backed away, leaving an opening in line.

“You sure you don’t have anyone you want to call?” Jolene asked. “What about your folks?”

“Nope. They’re driving to see my grandma today.”

Jolene looked at Tami, who gave her a big smile. “You’re the man, Smitty,” Tami said.

The women stepped into line; Smitty walked away, whistling.