Home to Texas Page 8

  And strangely—although she was just getting to know her brother-in-law since she’d come home—of all of her family, KD felt the strongest bond with the ex-con and horse trainer. Probably because he was an ex-soldier, too.

  “I wasn’t hiding,” she lied, ending the long silence. “I was dozing. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “The hip bothering you?”

  “Some.”

  “Or maybe it was the nightmares that kept you pacing all night.”

  KD glanced at him in surprise. He had heard her? He and Raney were using Raney’s bedroom upstairs until the house they were building was finished. Because of KD’s hip, and since her old bedroom was now Lyric’s nursery, Mama had insisted KD stay in the downstairs guest suite between the office and the kitchen.

  The nightmares had started soon after they’d taken her off the heavy pain meds and sent her home. KD hadn’t realized how much those pills had dulled her mind and kept her safely insulated from the dark thoughts that haunted her now. She often awoke in panic, her heart kicking against her ribs, her body shaking and wet with sweat. It embarrassed her that her sister and her brother-in-law might have heard her. She decided when she went to Fort Hood next week, she would ask Dr. Prescott to up her anti-anxiety meds. Maybe then she’d be able to sleep.

  Somewhere inside the house, the ranch phone rang. It sounded out-of-date in this age of cell phones. But comforting. KD liked that some things hadn’t changed while she’d been gone. She gave Dalton a weary smile. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “You didn’t. I went to the kitchen for a snack and heard you walking around.”

  How could she admit to him what she hadn’t even told her family? That every night seemed harder than the last and the guilt never stopped. They were all so supportive. So worried. And so justifiably confused. She wasn’t the same person who had marched off to defend the world. And the broken person who had come back was as much a stranger to them as she was to KD.

  But Dalton knew. He understood. He’d been to hell, too.

  “How’s the house coming?” she asked.

  “Too slow.” He grinned. “Not that I mind staying here under your mama’s watchful eye. Day in and day out. At every meal.”

  “I feel your pain.” Soon after they’d married, Raney and Dalton had started construction on a house out past the married workers’ duplex, close to the creek but far enough away to give them privacy. Not that Mama was nosey, bless her heart. KD was feeling smothered, too. She loved her family, but between four years at West Point, boot camp, officer training, and her brief time in Afghanistan, she’d lived away from home for the last five years. The weight of their solicitous attentions was starting to crush her. Maybe it was time she had a break from all that unbridled motherly concern.

  “Monday morning, when I go back to Hood,” she said, “I may stay over a few days. Not on base. It’s overcrowded as it is. Maybe a hotel in Killeen. Or a short-term rental. The long drives are hard on my hip.”

  “I could take you,” Dalton offered. “I know the boss pretty well. I bet she’d give me a day off.”

  KD met his grin with a weak smile. “She’d give you the moon if you asked.”

  “Which is why I don’t ask.”

  “Smart man. Thanks for the offer,” she went on, “but I’ll need a car while I’m down there.” Twice a week, she had to report for physical therapy, strength training to prepare her for the active duty fitness test, and group therapy, a requirement for soldiers who had sustained traumatic combat injuries. The physical therapy and training sessions were helping. The visits to the nut factory, not so much. Which was partly KD’s fault. She’d spilled her guts—literally—in Afghanistan. She wasn’t interested in doing it again in front of strangers.

  As the sun slipped behind the trees along Rough Creek, the sky exploded in bands of fiery color. Because of dust storms, sunsets in Afghanistan were beautiful, too. But instead of the chirp of crickets and frogs croaking down by the creek, those in Afghanistan were often accompanied by the rumble of distant explosions, gunfire, or the whup and howl of helicopters carrying the wounded back to base.

  “Is the group therapy helping?” Dalton asked, regaining her attention. “Some vets don’t like putting their business out there for everyone to see.”

  “It’s hard,” KD admitted. “We’re supposed to be tough, stoic warriors. And yet . . .” When bad thoughts come, there’s no armor in the world that can protect us.

  Dalton leaned over and patted her shoulder. “You’ll get there, KD. You’re not in this alone. You’ve got a lot of people pulling for you.”

  “I know.” Which was part of the problem. The hovering wasn’t helping.

  Maria, their housekeeper and cook, and a gentle, kindhearted woman with the patience of Job, stepped out onto the veranda. “There is a phone call for you, KD.”

  Great. Probably another barely remembered high school BFF calling to ask how she was doing and to get all the grisly details of her injury. Other than a couple of hunting mishaps, and that time one of the Higgins boys peppered his brother’s butt with buckshot over some girl, not that many people in Rough Creek had ever been shot. KD was big news, it seemed.

  “Take a number, could you, Maria? Tell her I’ll call back later.”

  “It is a him,” the housekeeper said. “Calling from Florida.”

  CENTCOM. KD came instantly alert. She’d been expecting—and dreading—a call from Central Command informing her that she was being called before an Article 32 panel. She had hoped she would have a little more time.

  “You will talk to him?” Maria pressed. At KD’s nod, she said, “I will bring the phone to you,” and went back into the house.

  KD was aware of Dalton studying her. She hadn’t told any of her family about the investigation, or the possibility that she might be facing charges. She said nothing about it now, either. The call might be about something else altogether.

  Maria came back with the phone, handed it to KD, and went back inside.

  “Lieutenant Whitcomb speaking.” KD said.

  “Do you have any idea how many Whitcombs there are in the United States Army?” a familiar deep voice said.

  Odd, how the sound of that voice could be so welcome.

  “Too many,” he went on. “Twelve in Texas alone. And since you never gave me your cell number, I had to dig up your ‘next-of-kin’ notification, which, incidentally, isn’t filed under KD, but Katherine Diane Whitcomb. This is Warrant Officer Murdock, by the way.”

  She had to laugh. “I guessed. Who else would call up a superior officer and rant at her about her name?”

  “I don’t think of you as a superior.” He sounded amused.

  “Clearly.” An image of him flashed through her mind. Dark stubble, dark hair sliding down his forehead, that wide grin brightening his blue eyes.

  “What’s your cell number?” he asked.

  She gave it to him, imagined him writing it down in that notepad of his.

  “And I wasn’t ranting,” he said after a moment. “I was expressing my irritation at having to sit at this damned computer for two hours trying to track you down. Why don’t you use your real name?”

  “KD is my real name. I just haven’t changed it legally yet. Are you a Luddite?”

  “A what?”

  “Luddite. They distrust technology, too.”

  He made a snorting noise. Then she heard the rustle of movement, the creak of a chair, and a deep sigh. She pictured him leaning back in a beat-up swivel chair before a bank of outdated computers in some windowless records basement, his long legs outstretched, heels propped on a gray metal desk.

  “So how’s it going, Lieutenant Whitcomb?”

  “Same as always. Doing the Lord’s work as best I can. But I doubt you called to fuss at me about my name or inquire about my health. You have news?”
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  “I do.” He no longer sounded amused. “There’s a panel hearing scheduled Monday after next. I got them to hold it at Hood, rather than here at CENTCOM, so you won’t have so far to travel. You are able to travel, aren’t you?”

  “I have to report to medical in Hood twice a week.” Ten days. A weight seemed to press against KD’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “I was hoping they wouldn’t convene an Article 32.”

  “Probably just for show. A CYA thing. When will you be at the base?”

  It took her a moment to catch her breath. “This coming Monday. I have a final medical checkup and strength training.” She didn’t mention group therapy. She didn’t think she needed it and was embarrassed to admit that Hwang had recommended it after that one panic attack at Landstuhl. She wasn’t crazy, just a little anxious, and she knew how to control it now, so she was fine. “I’ll stay either on base or in town until the hearing’s over. How long do you think it’ll last?”

  “A week. Unless there are a lot of witnesses. Which there aren’t.”

  Her heart started to pound. Her throat felt stuffed with cotton. In ten days, she might not be a soldier, or belong to the greatest army in the world, or see Murdock again.

  That last thought shocked her. Why would she care if she never saw Warrant Officer Murdock again? Yet she did care. Except for the poor damaged souls in her therapy group, Murdock was her only link to the person—the soldier—she had been. Other than a get-well card or two, the women in the cultural support team at Hickock hadn’t contacted her. It was as if after that day, she had ceased to exist to the soldiers she had lived with for that short time in Afghanistan. Probably for the best. She didn’t want to have to tell them what happened. How Nataleah had died. It was too shameful and would only remind her of what she’d done.

  “Will you be there, too?” It disgusted her how badly she wanted him to say yes. She hated feeling this needy.

  “They haven’t called me, but I’ll be there. I’ve got paperwork to do.” There was a pause. KD could hear him breathing, and an image of him dozing in the chair at the hospital filled her mind. “You sure you’re up for this, Lieutenant? Your recovery going okay? I can postpone it a couple more weeks if you need me to.”

  “No. I’ll be there.” She needed this hearing behind her so she could move on.

  “I’ll text you the name of a good JAG lawyer to represent you at the hearing. You’ll have to request him,” he added. “I can’t. But I’ll try to come in early to help you prep.”

  That news was so welcome, for a moment KD couldn’t respond. Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so outnumbered and alone. Suddenly, she had something to hang on to. “Thanks. And bring a hairbrush in case I forget mine.” He was chuckling when she ended the call, afraid she might say something even stupider.

  “Who was that?” Dalton asked. “And what’s this about an Article 32 hearing? And why are you sharing a hairbrush with him?”

  “He’s a CID warrant officer, and we’re not sharing a hairbrush. That was a joke. He’s investigating what happened in Afghanistan. And the Article 32 is only a formality. No big deal.”

  “Bullshit.” Dalton leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and studied her, his dark brows drawn in a hard, straight line. “An Article 32 is a very big deal. And they’re not convened as a formality. What’s going on, KD?”

  She didn’t want to talk about it and risk bursting the tiny bubble of joy that talking to Murdock had brought. Hearing his voice, his laugh, the low, rolling timbre of his voice had lifted her spirits higher than they had been in days. Weeks. She knew that bubble would burst eventually—she hardly knew the man—but it was precious to her now. Yet Dalton had a point. In the event she didn’t—or couldn’t—come back, her family would need to know why.

  “I’ll explain it all before I leave for Hood,” she told him. “I promise. Okay?”

  He studied her for a long time, then sat back, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “You like him, don’t you? This CID guy.”

  She waved the notion away. “I barely know him.”

  “He made you laugh. You haven’t done that since you came home.”

  “You’re dreaming.” Afraid of where this was headed, KD rose. “Enjoy my beer. I’m for bed.”

  “It’s not even eight thirty.”

  “Late enough.”

  She’d almost made her escape when he called after her, “If you see the CID guy in your dreams, tell him to call me. I need to know where this thing y’all have going is headed.”

  “It’s not a thing.”

  “Sounds like a thing.”

  “Bite me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Richard was disappointed. He had hoped to talk longer to KD. He liked that sexy Texas drawl and her odd sense of humor. For a guy who’d spent years perfecting his ability to read people, her unpredictability was a turn-on. Maybe he should arrange his schedule to be at Fort Hood earlier in the week. That would give him plenty of time to complete his paperwork and prep her for the hearing. He smiled, liking that idea. But those happy thoughts faded when a call came in and he saw it was Stranton. Shit.

  It was 2200 hours in Florida. If his CO was calling this late, he must be pissed about something. Richard was officially on leave, although Stranton could still cancel it any time. Or the chief could be calling about his case report on Farid. Wanting to avoid making waves before his leave started, Richard had asked the sergeant who handled the CID paperwork—a guy he’d known for years—to put his report at the bottom of the pile. Hopefully, Stranton hadn’t seen it yet.

  “Evening, sir. Murdock speaking.”

  “Who is this Khalil Farid who keeps calling me? Man’s driving me insane.”

  Richard let out a breath. Nothing about his case report or his leave. “He’s Asef Farid’s father, sir. The ANP captain who was killed in Afghanistan.”

  “He wants to come to the Article 32 hearing. How did he even hear about it?”

  “Maybe he heard talk at the FOB.”

  “Says he wants to testify. Some crap about defending his son’s honor. As usual, State is caving, afraid if they refuse his visa request, it’ll bring even more scrutiny. Christ! You said this was cut-and-dried. How did it get so fucked up?”

  “I don’t know, sir. But Khalil Farid is an addict and unstable. Local poppy grower, very rich. A suspected Taliban sympathizer and big on honor killings. The villagers at Hickock are terrified of him. There’s even been speculation he might have been behind the murder of the FET interpreter, Samira.”

  “Great.” Stranton let out a deep breath that sounded like a wind storm through the phone. “What’s your schedule?”

  “I’m heading to Fort Hood, sir. That’s where the Article 32 is being held.” Richard didn’t want to tell him he was still on base in Florida.

  “Texas? Who moved it over there?”

  “I did, sir. That’s where Lieutenant Whitcomb is. She isn’t fully recovered, and rather than wait any longer, I thought—”

  “Okay! Whatever.”

  Stranton was obviously stressing. Worried about his promotion, no doubt. If the man wasn’t such an ass-wipe, Richard might have felt sorry for him.

  “Warn the Hood MPs about this Farid guy,” the chief ordered. “And alert the preliminary hearing officer, major-what’s-his-name.”

  “Major Phillip Hendricks, sir. I have his number if you want it.”

  “Text it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How damaging will Khalil Farid’s testimony be?”

  “Not very. He’s mostly bluster and threats.” Richard hoped.

  “Threats against whom?”

  “Me, Lieutenant Whitcomb, the Hickock medical officer, just about everyone involved in his son’s case.”

  “Are the threats credible?”

  “I didn’t t
hink so.” But if Khalil came to Hood . . .

  Richard decided he would warn the MPs to keep an eye on KD Whitcomb, too. Fort Hood didn’t need another fiasco like that mass shooting back in 2009.

  “Anything you can do to counter Khalil’s testimony?” Stranton asked, steering Richard back on track.

  “I’ll check with the FOB medical officer. He might have some insights or names.” Best case would be if Erickson had ever treated another boy Asef Farid had exploited. Or knew of a villager who had firsthand knowledge of the ANP captain’s drug use and sexual abuse. A long shot, but worth a try.

  “They ever find the boy he took, or his mother?”

  “No, sir. Not likely to, either.”

  “Christ.” The chief was still cussing when he ended the call.

  Richard sent him a text with Hendricks’s contact info, then punched in Captain William Breslin’s number. Dr. Erickson was right. This was turning into a real clusterfuck. Hell of a way to start his leave.

  “Hey, Bill,” he said, recognizing the voice that answered. “Murdock here. Hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “Mudlark!” Bill said, using Richard’s nickname from boot camp. Bill had been called Opie because of his red hair and boyish face. He’d hated it. And since Richard was calling for a favor, he refrained from using it now.

  “It’s not even dark yet,” Bill went on. “What am I? Seventy? How’s it hanging, buddy?”

  “About a foot.”

  “You wish.” Their standard joke from those early days.

  After a few minutes of small talk, Richard told Bill he needed the name of a good JAG lawyer. “Best criminal defender you’ve got.”

  “Shit, man. What’d you do?”

  “Not for me.” Richard gave a brief explanation of the shooting. “Since it involves an ANP captain, my CO is trying to cover his ass by convening an Article 32. But I ran the investigation, Bill, and I can tell you she didn’t do anything wrong.”