“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.
It was a simple affair. Someone rigged up a PA system using a CB loudspeaker so Morgan could bring things to order. Detective Holzman presented his findings, starting with the incident in the trailer park and culminating with Farrell’s death at my hands. For my part, all I had to do was repeat the same story I had told several times earlier. Captain Morgan declared that I had acted in self-defense and would not be charged with any crimes. He then explained to his troops that my actions were justified, and if anyone so much as looked at me crossways, he would put his boot up so far up their ass they would taste shoe polish. That seemed to get the message across.
Finally, a couple of armed sergeants brought Private Stanhouse forward. Morgan told the assembled crowd that the young man had confessed to aiding and abetting a deserter, and if not for his actions, none of the tragic events that happened afterward would have occurred. Finished, he asked the kid what he had to say for himself.
Most of it was unintelligible. He was weeping and shivering with fear, but I got the impression he was trying to apologize. If the previous night’s events had happened to someone else, I might have felt sorry for the kid. I might have wanted Morgan to show him mercy and find some form of punishment that would teach him his lesson, but let him continue on in life.
But it didn’t happen to someone else. It happened to Lauren and me.
Lastly, Morgan asked my father and me to come forth and say what we wanted to the soldier. I declined; I had nothing to say to him. My father, however, did.
“I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry,” he told the weeping soldier. “That bastard Farrell raped my wife and tried to kill my son. You abandoned your duties and deliberately let that happen. And for what? A box of whiskey?” He spit in the soldier’s face. “Rot in hell.”
To Morgan, he said, “You want my advice? Shoot the fucker. Hell, I’ll even do it for you.”
The captain thought it over for most of a full minute. His expression was stoic, but I could see the turmoil behind his eyes. The crowd stayed silent, waiting. Finally, he picked up the microphone.
“Desertion has become a rampant problem in the Army. Our responsibilities are now too grave to allow an offense like this to be punished lightly. For those of you thinking about striking out on your own, I would remind you of the oath you swore to defend the people of this country. To abandon your duties now, in a time of such profound turmoil, is the height of selfishness and irresponsibility. And I, for one, will not abide it.”
He turned to the trembling soldier and stared at him flatly. “You knowingly aided and abetted a deserter. Worse, you allowed a criminal to harm one of the very people he was charged with protecting. Now that soldier is dead, and an innocent woman will have to live with the aftermath of a sexual assault for the rest of her life. There is a reason why desertion is a crime, soldier. And you have crossed the line.”
Raising his voice, he said, “Private Lawrence Stanhouse, I hereby sentence you to death. Your execution will be carried out immediately.”
A stir of whispers flowed through the crowd, the soldiers looking back and forth at each other in disbelief. Private Stanhouse went ghost white, his mouth hanging open in raw shock. Morgan turned to my father and offered him his sidearm. Dad took it, glaring coldly at the doomed man.
The two armed sergeants half-dragged, half-carried the private outside the gate kicking and screaming and begging the whole way. Dad followed a few paces behind, his face a mask of hate.
Morgan ordered the soldiers in the crowd to remain where they were and stand at attention. To one of his aides, he quietly gave orders to arrange a burial detail once he had dismissed everyone. We all stood in silence, military and civilian alike, until a few minutes later, a single report thundered across the field. Morgan stood with his hands clasped behind his back as the echo faded, then turned smartly and picked up the microphone.
“Let me make myself abundantly clear,” he said. “I. Am. Done. Fucking. Around. Discipline has been getting worse and worse since we left San Antonio, and I will tolerate it no further. Senior NCOs and squad leaders, you had better straighten your people the up, or so help me, I will come down on you like the hammer of God. The rest of you, I strongly suggest you get the fuck in line. There will be no more incidents like this one. There will be no more incidents PERIOD. Do I make myself clear?”
Stridently, in unison, the troops shouted, “YES SIR!”
“Very well. Dismissed.”
Behind me, I heard Lola say, “I can’t believe that just happened.”