Captured(6)

CHAPTER 2





REAGAN





Outside Houston, Texas, 2007





Why am I peeling potatoes? I hate peeling potatoes. It’s just me, so there’s no reason to cook anything complicated. But I’ve had oven pizza and microwave meals a thousand times over the last few months, and I need something different. Thus, potatoes au gratin and chicken paprika. Besides, the mind-numbing tedium of peeling potatoes is something to do besides gnaw on the sense of impending doom that’s been plaguing me.

Or, at least, that was the idea. The reality is that peeling potatoes leaves my brain with nothing to do but spin.

Something happened. Something happened. Something happened. It’s all I can come up with. I won’t allow myself to conjecture…or imagine. But I can’t ignore this tension, this constant stress and prickling on the back of my neck, the tightness of my shoulder muscles. Something has happened to Tom. I know it.

The antique grandfather clock in the foyer goes tock…tock…tock. The faucet runs. Something creaks somewhere in the old farmhouse. The AC is out again, so it’s hot as blazes in the Texas summer evening.

I hate this old house.

I glance out the window over the sink, and my gut clenches. A dust cloud announces someone coming up the long dirt road leading to the farm. I drop the peeler in the sink. Drop the potato. Turn off the faucet.

Breathe, Reagan. Breathe.

The visitor is still half a mile out, but I can’t make myself move, can’t make myself do anything but wait. After an eternity, I finally make out a low black car. An unmarked black sedan. Government.

No. No.

I wipe my hands on a towel, make my way on shaky knees to the front door. I shove open the screen.

Creeeeeeaaaaak…slam. There’s an ancient ceiling fan mounted on the front porch, and it rotates half-heartedly, stirring the thick, hot air. I stand directly beneath it, waiting. Hands clutched together, squeezing.

The car rolls to a stop, and the engine is turned off. Then it pops and ticks. I forget to breathe again. A car door opens; a tan pant leg descends to the dirt, a shiny black dress shoe. A body follows, tall, slim, straight. Buzzed black hair, mid-forties. Hard eyes. The insignia on the shoulder makes him an officer, but I can’t remember which insignia means which rank. The driver door opens, and another officer steps out. This one is older, salt-and-pepper hair. They approach slowly, hats under their arms.

The older officer stops with one foot on the lower step of the porch. “Reagan Barrett?”

I nod. “Yes. I’m Reagan.”

“I’m Sergeant Major Bradford” —he gestures to the younger man— “and this is Staff Sergeant Oliver. May we come in?”

I lean against the post, my knees giving out. “What happened to him? What happened to Tom?”

Sergeant Major Bradford’s eyes soften ever so slightly as he ascends the steps. He taps the rim of his hat with a forefinger. “I think maybe we should speak inside, Mrs. Barrett.”

I summon a breath, let it out. I step away from the post and turn toward the door, but my legs wobble, and I stumble. A hard but gentle hand supports my elbow, steadies me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask if I’m all right — he’s here; therefore, I’m not all right. I steel myself, palm flat on my stomach as if to hold myself upright. I lead them inside to the formal sitting room just off the foyer.

“Would you care for some iced tea?” I ask.

“Sure, that would be nice,” Sergeant Bradford says. “It’s hot out there.”

I pour three glasses and set them on a silver service tray.

It feels like I’m performing some kind of tradition.

Ice clinks, coasters are placed just so. Hats are set aside. I smooth my dress over my thighs. I wait.

“As I said earlier, my name is Sergeant Major Adam Bradford, and this is Staff Sergeant Travis Oliver. We’re from Camp Lejeune.” He clears his throat. “You are the wife of Lance Corporal Thomas Barrett?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He verifies Tom’s Social Security number, and then pauses to let out a small breath. “I’ll get right to it, Miss Barrett. Your husband has been officially declared DUSTWUN, or ‘duty station whereabouts unknown.’ Which is military speak for—”

“Missing in action,” I interrupted.

Bradford nodded. “Your husband was with his unit, traveling as part of a convoy assigned to investigate reports of Taliban activity in the eastern region of Afghanistan. The convoy was ambushed in the mountains.” He pauses, blinks, looks down. This is hard, even for him. “When the convoy failed to report in or answer their radios, a small search force was sent after them. The—the remains of the convoy was located. There were sixteen men in that convoy, Miss Barrett. Fourteen bodies were located.”

I begin to sob uncontrollably. “Stop…please stop.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I hate delivering this news. This is—this is one of the worst losses of American military personnel in a very long time. I had friends in that convoy. Close friends.” He pauses again, as if to gather strength. “There is still a chance your husband and Corporal West will be found. Search parties are out in force as we speak, and, given the number of lives lost, I know the units sent to find Corporals West and Barrett are doing so with extreme prejudice.”