“Dad, please,” I repeated. “You’re not making things any better.” I turned to Morgan. “It’s okay. I’ll stay here for now. Just leave me some water, and let me know what you find out, okay?”

“I can do that.”

“And Dad, just stay at the camp. Or better yet, go be with Lauren.”

It was as if I had stuck a needle in a balloon. The fists unclenched, the eyes closed, the shoulders sagged. He leaned down and put his head in his hands and sighed in helpless frustration. “You’re right. Are you sure you’re okay in here, son?”

“Like I said, just leave me some water.”

They did, and left. Morgan posted another guard, just one this time, and I had the impression he was there to keep people out rather than to keep me in. He was a young private, maybe about my age, with the big round red-cheeked face of a Nebraska farm boy. There were a few attempts on his part to strike up a conversation—a soldier’s go-to method to pass the time on a boring watch—but after a few grunts and monosyllabic answers from me, he gave it up.

I did not feel like talking.

*****

I could see through the exit the sky was overcast, which explained why it didn’t get too hot that day. The weak sun cast pale shadows on the ground outside the truck, slowly moving them from right to left, telling me I was facing south. The shadows began to lengthen until about 1600 when Travis showed up with my father. The guard left, and the two men stepped in.

Once again, Dad brought food. They gave me time to wolf it down before launching into the conversation.

“So what did you find out, Detective?” I asked.

He opened a notebook and said, “I need you to answer some questions first.”

“Okay.”

He asked me to repeat the statement I had given Captain Morgan. Then he asked me to repeat it again. He asked me questions, some of them direct, some of them obviously baited.

One of the classic methods of interrogation is to give someone enough rope to hang them with, then pull the noose tight. My father had taught me a thing or two about it, but I wasn’t worried. There was no need to be. I had the truth on my side.

Half an hour later, Holzman made a final notation in his book, then set it down and looked me in the eye. “Here’s what I’ve come up with so far. After the incident yesterday when two of Sergeant Farrell’s men were killed, Captain Morgan relieved him of command of his squad and put him under armed guard pending arrival in Colorado. He was facing charges for dereliction of duty, among other things. I interviewed his men, as well as your father and those friends of yours who were there. Long story short, things weren’t looking too good for Sergeant Farrell. Compounding this, there was the altercation between Farrell and your father.” He gestured at Dad. “From what I gathered, he blamed Mr. Hicks for the trouble he ran into.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “My father didn’t hold a gun to his head and force him to get his men drunk. Soldiers aren’t allowed to drink on duty for a very good reason. You ask me, they probably botched the job clearing the trailer. Didn’t follow procedure. If they had, those two men would probably still be alive.”

Holzman nodded.  “I stand to agree. Farrell struck me as the kind of person who likes to blame all his problems on everyone except the responsible party—himself.”

“You said he was under armed guard,” Dad chimed in. “How did he manage to get away from them?”

Holzman sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There was only one guard on duty at the time. He tried to say Farrell overpowered him and knocked him unconscious, but the only injury the medics found was a black eye. Now I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve never seen someone get knocked out by a punch to the eye. So I braced the kid, and after sweating him for an hour, he finally confessed that Farrell had bribed him into letting him go.”

“Bribed him?” I asked. “With what?”

Holzman let out another sigh, his jaded cop eyes red around the edges. “The location of a case of Jack Daniels whiskey stashed in one of the HEMTTs. Farrell punched the kid in the face to make it look legit, then set his escape plan into motion.”

“He was going to desert,” Dad said.

Holzman nodded. “Somewhere on the way up here through Texas, Farrell found a dirt bike and talked a HEMTT driver into letting him stash it with the other cargo. Near as I can tell, the first thing he did was retrieve the bike, slip past the guards on the western edge of the circle, and then hide it a few hundred yards away, along with a big can of fuel. One of the patrols found it a couple of hours ago. Afterward, he snuck back into the camp, found a can of salt somewhere, and used it to convince Lauren he wanted to trade.”

“So this was retaliation,” Dad said, a desolate look on his face. “For what I did to him. This whole thing is because of me.”

“Absolutely not.” Holzman turned to my father. “Listen, this is Farrell’s fault and no one else’s. He’s the one who committed the crime.” The detective shot me a meaningful glance. “And he paid for it with his life.”

“But If I’d …”

“No, Dad,” I said. “Detective Holzman is right. What happened to Lauren was not your fault, so don’t start blaming yourself. Right now you need to forget about all that and focus on what you need to do to help Lauren heal from this.”

Dad nodded quietly, but he did not meet my eyes.

“What about the soldier who helped Farrell escape?” I asked. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Morgan arrested him and placed him under armed guard. You ask me, I think he’s in deep shit. Desertion has become such a big problem the Army has authorized commanding officers to summarily execute any deserters they catch, as well as any active duty personnel caught aiding and abetting.”

Dad’s eyes widened. “Summary execution? Jesus. Back in my day, they busted you down, took half your pay for two months, gave you 45 days of restriction and extra duty, and then rolled you out of the Army. Things must be pretty bad if they’re executing people.”

“That’s the impression I got too,” Holzman said. “The soldier, a kid named Stanhouse, will be going before Captain Morgan this afternoon. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

“So what about me,” I asked. “Am I free to go now?”

“You are. Farrell attacked your stepmother, then tried to kill you. Compound that with the evidence he intended to desert from the Army, and I think we have a pretty clear-cut case of justifiable homicide. But I would steer clear of any military personnel until after the trial later this afternoon. The facts will come out then, and hopefully that will calm things down.”

“Understood.”

Holzman stood up and led the way out of the truck. I jumped down and stretched cramped muscles, grateful to be out of the vehicle’s confines. The detective shook hands with my father, then with me.

“Thank you, Detective,” I said. “I know we’ve had our problems, but … you’re a good policeman. I’m sorry about what happened a few days ago.”

“Forget it,” he said. “I overreacted to the situation. I should never have threatened you the way I did.” He cast a long look around the camp, the soldiers milling about, the people from the RV encampment going about their tasks, the smoke of cook fires hanging in the air. He ran a worried hand across his face. “Things have gotten pretty bad, there’s no denying that. But it doesn’t give me a license to take the law into my own hands. I swore an oath, and no matter how dark the road gets, I intend to keep it.”

“Well, good luck to you on that one,” Dad said. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

Holzman began walking away. Over his shoulder, he said, “I have a feeling you’re right.”

THIRTY-NINE

The sentencing was held at 1900 hours. All military personnel not on watch, as well as the contingent of civilians, attended.