Chương 6
“You record it?”
“No.”
“You search me first?”
“If necessary.”
“Then what?”
“You tell us what’s inside.”
“And if I don’t?”
His expression stayed calm.
“Then we deal with that when it happens.”
I almost admired him for not pretending trust existed.
Daniels placed the envelope on the table.
“Before anyone touches it, we photograph the exterior.”
Ruth nodded reluctantly.
I did not.
Nobody cared.
They documented the envelope from both sides.
Owens photographed the tape.
Daniels wrote down the time.
The younger officer returned and said a warrant request was being prepared for the house.
Owens frowned.
“For what basis?”
“Threat message tied to an armed suspect and possible unlawful confinement history.”
“Possible history from 1999.”
“Judge is reviewing.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“You do not go there even if the warrant gets denied.”
“I heard you the first three times.”
“I’m planning to say it six.”
“Why stop there?”
Luis sat down beside Ruth.
For the first time since he arrived, he looked tired rather than sarcastic.
“Bear.”
I ignored him.
“Bear.”
“What?”
“Your hands are shaking.”
I looked down.
They were.
I shoved them into my jacket pockets.
“That better?”
“No.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
Ruth watched me.
“You look like Michael when you’re angry.”
I turned on her.
“Don’t do that.”
She flinched.
The reaction hit me harder than if she had argued.
I took my hands back out.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded but did not say it was fine.
That was fair.
Owens and Daniels left the conference room.
Luis followed.
Ruth stayed seated.
I looked at her.
“You too.”
“I know.”
She stood.
At the door, she stopped.
“He talked about you constantly.”
I closed my eyes.
“Please.”
“Mostly complained.”
That made me open them.
A faint, guilty smile touched her face.
“He said you cheated at cards.”
“I did not.”
“He said you hid aces in your boot.”
“That happened once.”
“He said three times.”
“He was a liar.”
Ruth’s smile disappeared, but something gentler remained.
“Yes.”
She stepped out and closed the door.
I was alone with the envelope.
For several seconds, I did nothing.
I stared at the handwriting.
GRANT.
One word.
Four letters.
A message from a version of my brother who had been alive somewhere while we buried an empty coffin.
I picked up the envelope.
The tape resisted.
I used my thumbnail to lift one corner.
Inside were three folded pages and a plastic hotel key card so old the magnetic strip had faded gray.
There was also a Polaroid.
I pulled that out first.
Michael stood in front of a motel room door.
He was thinner than I remembered.
His left arm was in a sling.
A bandage crossed his temple.
He was alive.
That was all my mind could handle at first.
Alive.
Then I looked closer.
Someone stood beside him.
A man whose face had been partly cut off by the edge of the photograph.
Only the lower half showed.
Gray military-style trousers.
Brown belt.
Left hand resting against the doorframe.
Ring finger bent sideways.
Elliott.
On the back of the photograph, Michael had written a date.
November 3, 1999.
Almost a month after Ruth said he disappeared.
My throat tightened.
He had survived leaving the house.
I unfolded the pages.
The first line stopped me.
Grant, if Ruth gets this to you, then either I failed or somebody decided they need you more than they need me.
I read it again.
Then again.
The words did not improve.
I forced myself onward.
I am not writing because I expect you to save me.
If you come looking for me, you will make this worse unless you understand what happened to my unit.
I sat down.
The chair felt too small.
Michael’s handwriting slanted harder as the letter continued.
He wrote that his convoy had not been attacked where the official report claimed.
He wrote that two men in his unit had been ordered to move sealed cases out of a transport truck before the explosion.
He did not know what was inside.
He knew the cases were not military issue.
He knew an American civilian had been present.
He knew the civilian used the name Elliott.
Then came the sentence that made my skin go cold.
Elliott told us the dead were easier to manage than witnesses.
Michael had survived the explosion because he had been thrown down a drainage slope.
He had woken in a field hospital under another man’s identification.
Before he could correct the mistake, Elliott found him.
The rest of the page described movement.
Safe houses.
Cash.
Threats.
A promise that our parents would be harmed if Michael contacted home.
He had believed it because Elliott knew their address.
He knew mine too.
I turned the page.
There were names.
Five of them.
Two soldiers.
A civilian contractor.
A logistics officer.
And a sixth line left blank except for one initial.
R.
Beneath it, Michael had written, He is the reason I cannot trust the investigation.
My pulse picked up.
The final paragraph was shorter.
If you ever receive this, do not give the original to the Army, the police, or anyone calling themselves federal until you verify one thing first.
I leaned closer.
Find Sergeant Thomas Vale.
Ask him what was written on the inside of my helmet.
If he answers correctly, trust him.
If he is dead, walk away.
Do not go to Mill Creek.
Do not look for me.
I mean that, Grant.
For once in your life, listen.
M.
I sat back.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Even from the grave, Michael had found a way to insult me.
Then I noticed something at the bottom of the third page.
Not handwriting.
An impression.
Words pressed into the paper from another sheet that had once rested on top of it.
I tilted the page toward the overhead light.
Three faint lines appeared.
A date.
May you like
A phone number.
And beneath them, another name.
