In the Name of Honor Read online

  Kate, Terry sensed, was struggling to understand how her life had come to this. His own presence was less the cause than an occasion to reflect aloud. “Did he ever mention Brian?” Terry asked.

  Kate regarded him with sudden curiosity. “I didn’t think much about that then,” she said. “But it changed. At first he’d mention Brian and say he was fine or doing a good job. Then that stopped. Even when I asked about Brian, Joe hardly answered. Brian vanished from his letters.”

  “How was Joe when he came back?”

  Kate gazed at the coffee table in front of her, searching for words. “It was like some part of him had died inside, seeping poison into his soul. I know Brian seems haunted. But when he forces himself to focus, like he can with me, he’s still completely present. Joe wasn’t.

  “Sober, he was quiet and faraway. Drinking induced a deeper silence—then suddenly he’d break into a rage so consuming his body trembled.” A look of remembered anguish contorted Kate’s face, and she turned to Meg as though seeking expiation. “He scared me—so much that I think he scared himself. I didn’t know where to turn.”

  In response, Meg stared silently at the carpet. Hurt surfaced in Kate’s eyes; Terry wondered whether they were ever as close as Meg’s description of familial entwinement might suggest, or whether the distance he perceived was that Meg held Kate responsible for Brian’s plight. Gently, Terry asked Kate, “Tell me more about how Joe changed.”

  “He couldn’t sleep. He barely noticed Mattie and Kristen, except when they made him edgy—often just by wanting him to be the dad he’d been before. He’d react like he was being badgered by kids he didn’t know.” She paused abruptly, her voice lowering. “He started keeping a loaded gun in the nightstand by our bed. Sometimes he’d wake up with a start and reach for it—like he was afraid it wasn’t there. Then, one night, he found it missing.”

  With the last phrase, Kate seemed to blanch. When Terry glanced at Meg, her lips were compressed, her posture tight. To Kate, he said, “What about Joe’s drinking?”

  Kate composed herself again. “Joe had a pattern. He could maintain at work. Then he’d get home, pour himself a tumbler of whiskey, and begin compulsively drinking and pacing like he needed to calm himself. But sometimes the lid came off and he’d get angry over nothing. You never knew what would light the match.

  “One night, Joe stumbled over one of Kristen’s dolls. He just blew up, shouting at me that the living room was like a garbage dump. In desperation, I grabbed him by the shirt, pleading with him to get help. That was when, for the first time, he slapped me.” Her tone held muted wonder. “It hurt—I remember feeling faint, my legs wobbling. But what hurt even more was the shock of it. When my vision focused, I saw he couldn’t believe it either. His eyes were glassy, like he’d gone into shock. I watched him slowly absorbing what he’d done. Then he left the house without a word.”

  “Did you talk about it later?”

  Kate shook her head. “When he came back from the Officers’ Club, he begged me to leave him alone. In the morning he went back to work with his battalion, like nothing had ever happened.”

  “When was this?” Terry asked.

  “Four months ago.”

  “And he kept on hitting you?”

  A flush colored Kate’s pale cheeks. “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “Nine,” she answered softly. “I counted them. Always across the face with an open palm.”

  Terry hesitated. In a mild tone, he asked, “Was there sexual abuse?”

  Eyes keen, Meg turned to Kate. But Kate stared straight ahead. “No,” she said flatly. “We had no sex at all. Not since Joe came back.”

  “Did he ever talk about Iraq?”

  “He wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.” Her shoulders hunched. “Once when he was drunk, Joe mumbled something about Brian chickening out, that he didn’t have the guts to do the job. When I asked what he meant, he went completely silent. But I knew Joe—something had happened in Iraq, involving Brian, that made Joe feel either angry or guilty. Maybe both. But I don’t know what it was.”

  Terry glanced at Meg. “Do you?”

  “No,” Meg answered with a trace of sadness. “For me, my brother’s service in Iraq is terra incognita. I only know from my father that the fighting Brian went through was particularly bad.”

  It was the first time, Terry realized, that either woman had mentioned Anthony McCarran, the head of their quasi-family. Looking at Kate, Terry asked, “Before Iraq, how did Joe get along with the male McCarrans?”

  Eyes narrowing, Kate seemed to turn away from Meg. “With General McCarran,” she said carefully, “Joe entered our family feeling this deep respect. Not only was Tony already a general with a superb reputation, but Joe knew that Tony had stood in for my father. On both counts, Joe saw him as an authority figure, a statue on a pedestal.”

  Listening, Meg’s face seemed to close. When Kate added nothing, he asked, “And Joe’s feelings about Brian?”

  Kate’s brow knit. “They were always pretty different. Brian was a McCarran, high up in his class at West Point, and Joe imagined him as predestined for success. West Point rejected Joe. He’d gone to the Citadel as a fallback, killed himself to succeed. As personalities, Joe was pretty straight-ahead, Brian more internal and reflective.” Kate glanced at Meg, as though acutely conscious of her presence. “Until Iraq, they always seemed to do all right. But when they came back, Joe avoided seeing Brian off-duty, even though we live less than ten minutes apart. Except for that one comment, he refused to acknowledge that Brian McCarran existed.”

  “What did Brian say about Joe?”

  Kate was very still. Softly, she answered, “Until recently, nothing.”

  “What was your relationship to Brian?”

  Kate mustered a smile that did not quite take. “I met Brian when I was nine, the day after he was born. He was where I learned to change diapers. Fortunately, things improved. Brian was always bright and perceptive—by the time he was sixteen, we could talk to each other about anything. He even became Mathew’s babysitter, the one I relied on most.” She paused, speaking with more emphasis. “I love Brian, and I trust him. He’s a wonderful person. Whatever happened with Joe, I know Brian didn’t mean to kill him.”

  If it came to choosing a character witness, Terry thought, the victim’s articulate wife would be hard for a prosecutor to tarnish. “You mentioned that Brian seems haunted. Did he talk about that?”

  “No. Like Joe, he just wouldn’t.”

  “After Brian came back, how often did you see him?”

  Kate hesitated. “Maybe once a week. He’d come over for lunch, or we’d go for a walk.”

  “Always without Joe?”

  “Yes.” Kate paused again, then added in a defensive tone, “That wasn’t just about Brian. Joe began to isolate us, so we saw friends less and less. Because of his drinking, I was afraid to be alone with him or go out with other couples. Brian was a refuge.”

  Terry sat back, watching her closely. “Who knew that Joe was hitting you?”

  Kate crossed her arms, looking away. “Only Brian.”

  “Not even your mother or a girlfriend?”

  Kate shook her head. “They couldn’t help me, and I knew they’d say to turn Joe in. I couldn’t.” Her eyes met Terry’s. “If I’d reported Joe, his commanding officer would have had him investigated by the military police. It might have ended the career he worked so hard for. I don’t think he could ever forgive me.” She froze suddenly, as if seized by the irony in her use of the present tense: instead of his career, Joe had lost his life. Softly, she finished, “We’re Catholic, Captain Terry. All of us—the McCarrans, Gallaghers, and D’Abruzzos. Divorce would have been hard for me, and I know the damage it does to children. So I prayed for us both, until Joe put the gun to my head.”

  “Tell me about that,” Terry requested.

  As Meg turned to her, Kate seemed to steel herself. Haltingly but clearly, she began to paint a
portrait of a tragedy unfolding.

  THEY WERE GOING TO dinner, like a normal couple. Kate dropped the kids with her mother; alone in the car, she could almost imagine that their life was as before.

  Joe had come home from work. She found him in the living room, restless and impatient, though their reservations allowed her an hour to get ready. Trying to ignore his mood, she went to take a shower. Finished, she put on a robe and, before drying her hair, decided to ask how his day had been.

  He was drinking from a large tumbler of whiskey. She hesitated, then spoke in a voice she hoped was not reproving. “Could you wait until we’re at the club? I’d like us to have cocktails together.”

  Joe looked nettled and defensive, the warning signs of anger. “I’m fine,” he snapped, and took another swallow.

  Kate drew a breath, then sat beside him on the couch. Softly, she said, “You’re not fine, Joe.”

  She left it there, awaiting his reaction. When he turned to her, his expression was calm, even attentive. “What are you trying to say, Kate?”

  Beneath the emotionless tone, she sensed Joe warning her to be cautious. But she pressed ahead, hoping that he was sober enough to hear her. “I’ve already said it,” she responded gently. “Many times. Now the kids are telling both of us.”

  With a barely discernible edge, he inquired, “What about the kids?”

  “Mattie gets angry at nothing, Kristen’s becoming weepy and withdrawn. Both of their teachers have noticed.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “I can’t be so intent on keeping the peace that I ignore our own children. If you won’t get help to face whatever has happened to you, you’re in danger of losing everything.”

  “ ‘Everything’?” he echoed quietly.

  She hesitated, finding his calm unnerving. “Everything you care about—your career, the kids, the friends who notice how much you’ve changed. And me.” Seeing his eyes harden, she touched his arm. “You can’t manage this anymore, and it’s harming Mattie and Kristen.”

  He turned from her, drink clasped in both hands, staring into some middle distance. Kate felt torn between her hope that he was weighing her plea and her fear of breaking the silence. Fingertips resting on his shoulder, she said in a mollifying tone, “We can talk about this at dinner. Please, just don’t have another drink.”

  He did not speak or look at her. Quietly, Kate returned to the bathroom.

  She dried her hair in front of the mirror, trying to imagine the confusion of his thoughts. Perhaps, this time, he had heard her. The whine of the hair dryer erased all other sounds.

  His face appeared in the mirror.

  Kate started, but did not turn. Standing behind her, Joe said with ominous quiet. “Turn off the hair dryer.”

  Kate complied, frozen where she stood. He placed the tumbler on the sink, then roughly grabbed her shoulders to spin her around. In a low, tight voice, he demanded, “Who knows, Katie?”

  Bracing herself, she felt her bottled fear and anger become defiance. “Everyone. Don’t you know how different you are? Are you so far gone you’ve stopped seeing yourself? If you don’t believe me, look in the mirror. Look at us.”

  Joe’s eyes flickered toward his reflection. As if they had a will of their own, his hands fell to his sides.

  More evenly, Kate urged, “It’s not too late, Joe. Together, we can face this.”

  Joe stared at her. She could not tell whether his mind had accepted or distorted her plea. Without speaking, he turned and left.

  Shaken, Kate reached for the hair dryer. Then Joe reappeared in the mirror. She saw, then felt the gun he held to her temple.

  In a taut voice, he asked, “Have you told Colonel Parrish?”

  Kate’s stomach felt hollow. “No.”

  Numbly, she wondered if this stranger, her husband, would put a bullet through her brain. Silently their images in the mirror watched each other. Kate saw his eyes shut, then his hand move, relieving the metallic pressure on her temple. He turned, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care.

  The click of the door latch broke her spell. Tears running down her face, Kate knelt beside the toilet and vomited.

  FACING TERRY, KATE LOOKED and sounded tired. “I don’t know how long I stayed there. Finally, I cracked the door open. The bedroom was empty. The gun was in the drawer, but Joe was gone. That was when I called Brian.”

  Meg seemed to tense, as if experiencing the moment. “How did he react?” Terry asked.

  Kate told him, speaking without emotion, as though her narrative had happened to someone else. Except for a few details, insignificant in themselves, her account mirrored Brian McCarran’s. Listening, Meg closed her eyes.

  “What led to the shooting?” Terry asked.

  THE IRONY, KATE TOLD him, was that Joe had suggested going on their previously aborted dinner. As before, the children were gone, and Joe had started drinking.

  For once, it did not appear to taint his thoughts. Still dressed in street clothes, he sat on the edge of their bed, watching Kate put her earrings on. “Just the two of us,” he said. “Remember when we used to do this?”

  The tenor of his remark, spoken as though until now they had simply been too busy, filled her with unspeakable sadness. “Yes,” she answered in a shaky voice. “I do.”

  Something in her tone seemed to jar him from his reverie. His face changed, as though a veil had fallen, leaving his eyes distant and bleak. Then he stood and—for reasons Kate would never fathom—slid open the drawer of the nightstand.

  She watched him stare at the empty drawer. Quietly, he asked, “Where is it?”

  She should have prepared an answer, Kate knew. “What are you talking about?”

  He turned slowly, heavily, as though processing her feeble evasion. The rage in Joe’s eyes made her shrink from him.

  With swift catlike movements, Joe threw her on the bed, her arms and legs flailing like a rag doll’s. Panicked, she felt his hands around her throat, both thumbs pressing her Adam’s apple. She began to gag, her windpipe narrowing. His face was inches from hers. “Where?” he inquired with lethal softness.

  He would kill her, Kate thought, before he grasped what he had done. With the last reserves of air, she croaked, “Brian.”

  The stench of liquor filled her nostrils. “McCarran took it?” Joe demanded.

  All she could do was nod, until he lessened the pressure. “I gave it to him,” she managed to say. “It’s not Brian’s fault—”

  “Nothing,” he interrupted harshly, “is ever Brian’s fault. It’s always mine.”

  Suddenly he stood. Lying on the bed, Kate felt violated. Her throat was raw and tender.

  Turning, Joe headed for the door. Afraid, she asked, “Where are you going?”

  “To get back what’s mine. It’s time that little faggot remembers his rank.”

  Joe stalked from the room. Helpless, Kate heard the front door close behind him.

  She made herself stand. Dazed, she could not remember Brian’s phone number. Then she started dialing, the numbers coming back to her.

  His phone kept ringing, and then she heard a click. In the hollow tone of a recording, he answered, “This is Brian McCarran . . .”

  LISTENING, MEG INHALED VISIBLY. “So you left a message,” Terry prodded.

  “Yes.”

  Led by Terry, Kate recited her version of the message, then the hasty conversation when Brian called back, cut short when Joe pressed the buzzer. Almost word for word, her account of both squared with Brian’s.

  “When did you hear about Joe?” Terry asked.

  “Hours later,” Kate answered wanly. “From the CID man. It was what I’d always feared—a uniformed stranger at my door. Except this man didn’t tell me Joe was dead.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That there’d been an incident involving Joe and Brian. He asked if I could tell him what I knew.”

  “Did you?”

  Perched at the end of the couch, Meg watched Kate closely
. “Yes,” Kate answered. “Everything—the missing gun, Joe leaving, the two phone calls. Exactly like I just told you. But I was too afraid to ask what had happened. Instead they started asking about Joe and me.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “His job at the battalion; mine teaching at the school. Who we socialized with. How often we went out. Who babysat our kids.” She paused. “Then it got more personal. I remember him asking if I ever spent a night away without the kids or Joe.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Never.”

  Terry glanced at Meg. Softly, he inquired, “Did they ask if you were sleeping with Brian?”

  Answering, Kate looked straight at Terry. “I said that we were lifelong friends, and that his question was insulting. That’s when he told me Brian had killed Joe.”

  Turning away, Meg’s expression was opaque, as though she was absorbed in her own thoughts. “Since then,” Terry asked, “who have you seen or spoken to?”

  Kate stared at him. “Other than telling our kids that their father was dead?”

  Unruffled, Terry answered, “Yes.”

  The emotion drained from her face and voice. “So many people left messages. Even Brian—saying he was sorry, wondering if I was okay, asking how the kids were. I couldn’t bring myself to call him back.”

  “Just as well,” Terry said. “Who have you spoken with?”

  “My mother, of course. Meg. My friend Christy Winslow.” She hesitated. “Also, Tony.”

  “General McCarran?”

  “Yes. He called to ask what he could do.” Her tone grew testy. “He’s the nearest to a father I’ve ever had.”

  Terry wondered if the defensiveness he heard was directed at Meg and, if so, for what reason. Meg’s expression told him nothing. “With any of these people,” Terry asked, “did you discuss what had happened before the shooting?”