A crime-scene tech was taking photos. A medical examiner — from the gray hair and slight form I thought it was Sengupta — was bent over the head. Beyond his back I glimpsed a single denim-clad leg, woman’s or teen’s, from the size of it. I saw the boots — weathered brown insulated Merrells — identical to Karen’s.
It is not Karen, I don’t care what Homza said.
I heard more vehicles, outside, grumbling, rattling, converging on the cabin. And now, looking up, I saw graffiti on the wall. No, not just graffiti but a message. Red paint oozed, dried slowly, ran from a chest-high starting point to the dusty plywood floor.
MURDERER MARINES!
YOU KILL OUR LOVED ONES! NOW WE KILL YOURS!
The police photographer moved left for another shot, revealing her entire body. The thing on the floor, the thing with a face turned away had Karen’s silver hair, Karen’s puffed-up Outfitter parka. I told myself it wasn’t her. That someone had sheared off hair that looked like hers, attached it to an adult-sized doll. A doll which spilled a sludgy pool of blood onto the floor. Camera flashes exploded on the pudding-like surface. I’d seen blood in Afghanistan. I’d tended to Marines on the field of battle. This was different. This was her.
Sight became blurred as sound grew magnified. I heard whispering detectives in a corner, snatches of talk over the scuff of boots on wood, snap of a forensic glove on someone’s wrist, electric buzz of the tripod floodlight.
From the body temperature, it happened within the past two hours.
I disagree. Rigor is delayed in the cold.
The jaw. The eyelids. Rigor’s definitely beginning.
I said to no one in particular, to myself, to hope, to fantasy, to too late, “That’s not her.”
Soldiers gripped me by the chest, dragging me outside. Someone was screaming. I heard a man’s screaming, agony and grief. I had to tell her something. It was important to get back there and tell her I was here, with her. My flailing boots connected with someone’s leg, and there was a howl. A Ranger fell back, writhing on the ground. There were too many of them. The doorway and cabin receded. My boot heels formed drag marks in the hard, granular snow.
A calm voice, a soothing voice, in my ear said, “Can we let you go, Colonel? Can we let go of you now?”
“Yes. I’m… I’m good.”
“The general wants to see you.”
“Tell the general to go fuck himself.”
“Yes, sir. This way please, sir.”
When had the crowd behind the tape arrived, and the growing collection of small trucks, ATVs, SUVs, even, in the snow, a bicycle? Civilians made death entertainment. They snapped cell-phone shots as police in departmental parkas and flap-eared hats kept them back, at the tape. Someone in front held a better-quality camera. That someone wore Mikael Grandy’s festive red-and-white striped pullover hat. I broke away from the man guiding me. I saw Mikael’s camera lower when I was almost on him. I ripped through the tape like a runner at the finish line. He doubled over as my fist slammed into his solar plexus. Mikael on the ground, gasping like an animal. He tried to kick back. He tried to cover himself. I didn’t care which part of him I made contact with as long as I hit something.
“You were here! You followed her everywhere!”
“I’ll sue you,” he shouted.
“That fucking camera! Even now!”
They pulled me off as Lieutenant Colonel Amanda Ng helped him up, and Raymond Hess picked up his camera, stared at it… evidence… as I was spun around and marched toward the idling Humvee. The rear door was open and Major General Wayne Homza sat inside, a smoking pipe in his mouth.
“Get in, please, Colonel.”
I brought Karen up here early so we could be together. Then I ignored her. I kept going when everyone told me to stop.
“Colonel, I gave you an order. Get in!”
He said nothing at first.
We sat there. It seemed like a long time, but probably wasn’t. He watched me, maybe giving me time to collect myself; maybe wondering whether I had anything to do with the death. Lover’s quarrel? Plotters turning on themselves? Homza worrying this murder into his larger problem. Homza deciding things. The windows fogged and blue smoke swirled and a thick, sweet borkum odor filled my lungs. The heater made a growling noise. I heard the rumble of more vehicles arriving from the main part of town.
You left her alone, Joe. But you couldn’t leave the Harmon deaths alone.
“Colonel Rush?”
I thought, If you go down now, you lose the opportunity to find whoever did this.
I saw the abyss in front of me. It was waiting and it was an abiding blackness, an eternity more real than any Leavenworth cell. Grief was becoming rage and the only question was how it would consume me. I could plunge in now or hold myself back a little longer. I could make a deal with it. I could use it for clarity in exchange for self-destruction up the road.
All you had to do was go along with everyone else and call the deaths suicide/murder. We all would have gone home.
“Colonel!” Homza packed and relit the pipe, drew in smoke and said, watching, “Under other circumstances I’d release you now, give you time off.”
“I don’t want time off.”
Everyone you love, you destroy.
His brows went up. He puffed smoke. “You’re a singular person. I’m not unaware that you’re the only one so far who seems to have any idea of what is happening. Everything you’ve predicted has occurred. Now Dr. Vleska is killed.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, General.”
“Me neither.” The general’s eyes swept the cops, soldiers, crowd, bored back into me. He said, “Locals getting back at big bad government? You heard that shouting in the school. Accusations. That would explain the message. That?”
“Looks like it,” I heard myself say, using every ounce of discipline to achieve a semblance of normal voice, to speak from a place of focused, rational thought. “One of George Carling’s relatives maybe. Someone close to someone who died. They know she was my fiancée. They couldn’t get to me. So, yeah, looks like. Looks.”
“You know, the mayor made some points in there. I need five times more people than I have. He was right about the freeze coming. He was right when he said our scenarios were never designed for the Arctic. Now, a murder,” Homza said.
“Murder takes up manpower. Murder diverts.”
“Give it to the police? Local problem? What do you suggest I do with this?” Homza said.
“I don’t know what you should do.” My head hurt. I said, “But I know what I want to do. Permission to speak plainly?”
He made a wry face and blew out smoke. “Considering what you say when you don’t have permission, this ought to be enlightening. Go ahead.”
“You don’t much like me and everyone knows it.”
“Correct.”
“Let’s use it.” I told him what I wanted to do. I explained it in some detail. It was important to sound rational. In control.
He said, considering, “You’re serious?”
“Why not? If I screw up, I’m blamed. If it works, you get credit. If I’m guilty, Colonel Ng still finds out. You can’t afford to miss an opportunity. You’re on a clock. You don’t want to have to explain in Washington later if I could have helped out now. And the best part for you… I’m gone in six months, either way. Expendable.”