The Summer House(110)

When there was a pause, I asked him, “Are you still in the hospital, sir?”

“Shut up,” he said. “That’s the mess you’ve made, Major. A pretty deep, muddy hole, pissing off a whole lot of folks in CID, the Medical Corps, and JAG. But…”

I waited, daring not to say a word.

“But on the upside, you and your folks took out a pervert congressman before he became a pervert senator, which is nice, and you also saved three Rangers and the reputation of the Rangers, which means a big deposit in your depleted karma bank.”

I asked him, “What about my group?” knowing full well how experimental it was, but at that point he hung up on me.

In the room, Connie is in a standard hospital bed, still bandaged about her head, her face horribly bruised and her eyes swollen, still hooked up to IVs and sensors, but breathing on her own. The doctors who’ve talked to me say that part of her skull is missing from where she was shot, and that she might have suffered some brain damage.

Too soon to tell, although what is known is that she hasn’t woken up yet.

I’m sitting in a fancy padded wheelchair, both legs stretched out and in casts, and I also have a few stitches here and there. Sanchez is in jeans and a red polo shirt, sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs, while Jefferson stands, wearing a plain black T-shirt and khaki slacks. The Ranger looks uncomfortable, like he will never, ever allow his body to relax in civilian clothes.

The mood is quiet, and Sanchez says, “I know I’m not going to be charged with anything, but damn it, I’m tired of having the hospital’s security force trail me every time I go down to the cafeteria.”

I smile, but Jefferson stands like a polished statue of black granite. I catch his attention and say, “I’m sorry about Specialist Tyler. I wish…I wish it could have ended differently.”

For a moment I think he doesn’t hear me, but in a low voice he says, “Not your fault, Major. Not his fault, either. Everybody’s got a breaking point, especially when you belong to a system that keeps on rotating these boys in and out, in and out, until they’ve done four, five, six deployments. They get trained to be the best wolves in the world, and then they’re expected to come home and put that all away and become nice little sheep again, be quiet, peaceful, and not raise a fuss.”

He shakes his head. “Until they’re called up to be wolves again. The tour before our last one, there was a marketplace. A kid was coming up to us, showing some DVDs he wanted to sell. Vinny was on point. There was something else in that bag, heavy, not a DVD. The kid wouldn’t stop. The kid wouldn’t stop…and after Vinny shot him, they found a fragmentation grenade in the bag with a trigger cord. Would have taken out our fire team. But Vinny…to him, he hadn’t saved us. He had killed a kid.”

Then Jefferson clears his throat. “And Major Moore, our XO, he was trying to do right by me, by protecting my stepdaughter, Carol. Look what that got him.” He shifts and looks directly at me. “Tell me there’ll be justice for Major Moore.”

I say, “With Sheriff Williams’s arrest, her deputies are turning on one another like a Mafia crew after their godfather’s been nailed. From what I’ve heard, she’s being kept in the Sullivan County jail, in the general population. Considering everything she’s done, I don’t think she’s going to get a warm reception from her cellmates. Yes, Staff Sergeant, I’m sure there’ll be justice for Major Moore.”

“Good,” he says.

We remain quiet for a while. On the small table next to Connie’s hospital bed is my Bruce Catton book about the Civil War, Glory Road. The cover’s torn, some pages are damaged, and most of all, it smells of smoke and Afghanistan. It’s battered but still here, like me.

But what now?

I think about that Kipling poem. And again I think, no, I’m not a soldier. I’m a cop. Just a cop, playing make-believe Army.

Maybe it’s time to put in for retirement, heal my legs and hip, and maybe heal my broken family. I tried calling my daughter, Kelli, and son, Kevin, but neither of them returned my messages.

Connie moves a bit in her bed. I reach over, take her hand.

The Ranger says, “There’s something else, Major.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“An apology,” he says, his voice still firm and low. “My guys…and other frontline grunts, you know how it is. We don’t trust, don’t respect, and don’t much like you guys in the rear echelons. The paper pushers. The support staff. The pampered officers. The Fobbits. But you and your crew…you worked for my fire team and me. Even when I was a thickheaded idiot and turned you away. You suffered. You put yourselves out there. You sacrificed for us, when you really didn’t have to. Excuse me for what I’m about to say, sir, but that’s a fucking big deal. On behalf of my Rangers and me, thank you, sir. We’ll never forget.”

My eyes seem to get moist and puffy. I squeeze Connie’s hand. Sanchez, on the other side of the room, is looking down at his sneakers.

I say, “It was our job, Staff Sergeant. And it was our honor as well.”

Quiet returns to the room, until I hear a cough, and a weak voice says, “How the hell do you expect me to sleep with all you guys yapping? Shut up, will you?”

Snap-quick, I turn, and there’s Connie, eyes open, her mouth working, stretching some in her bed.