The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

off balance. Of course, I’d never seen him after he’d been charged with murder either. The more I thought about it, the angrier it made me. If this was what the Army did when someone reported a crime, it was no wonder there was such a culture of silence. Dad would know someone, though. He’d spent his career working with military attaches, and knew more than a little bit about how the military functioned. A lot more than I did, anyway.

In silence, we left the train and walked to the condo, hand in hand. In the lobby, the concierge gave my car keys back. For the second time in a month, the car had been at the Mercedes dealership getting worked on. Something was wonky with the electrical system, and occasionally the car just randomly wouldn’t start. I glanced at the papers that came with the keys: they were incomprehensible. I didn’t care, as long as it was fixed. We rode up to the apartment clinging to each other.

“I’m going to call my father,” I said once the door was open. Distracted, he nodded as he turned on his laptop.

As I dialed the phone, Ray was pulling up the home page of The Washington Post. He muttered a curse when he saw the lead article. Then he grabbed his laptop and headed out the sliding glass door. Idly, I hoped he’d quit smoking soon. But now wasn’t really the time to worry about that.

Dad answered on the second ring.

“Carrie!” he said. “How are you?”

“Hi Dad ... I’m … well.” It wasn’t true, but that’s how you did things with my dad.

We chatted for a couple of minutes about inconsequential stuff. I love my father. Over the years he’d developed a certain warmth which didn’t come naturally to him, but I always knew he cared. Unlike my mother, he was far less likely to try to exert direct control of his daughters. Instead, his weapon was bribes, kindness, or a thoughtful manipulative word here and there. Dad was a diplomat, literally, as well as figuratively. And as an adult, he’d become almost a friend. But I was itching to get down to business.

He could tell. After a couple of minutes, he said, “Something on your mind, Carrie?”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah. I need to talk to you about something. And it’s important ... very important.”

“You can always talk with me, Carrie.”

That made it very clear that he hadn’t read the online editions of the papers. Time enough for that later, or when the print edition of the New York Times arrived on their doorstep in the morning.

“Yeah, well. This is a bit unusual. Dad ... when Ray was in Afghanistan, he witnessed something. He ... he saw a murder. An Afghan child was murdered by one of our soldiers.”

I heard my dad suck in a breath. Then he said, “That’s serious indeed. Did Ray report this?”

“He did.”

“And what came of that?”

As I answered, I saw Ray set his laptop on the table on the porch. He stood up and lit a cigarette and leaned against the edge, staring out into the distance. His back was like a straightedge, and I could see his hand shaking a little.

“Dad, Ray was called back up to active duty. We thought ... we assumed ... that it was because he was going to have to testify. But ... this morning he was informed that he’s been charged with murder.”

Silence at the other end of the line.

“Dad? I need to know ... you worked in the government a long time. Do you know any military attorneys? Or anyone who could help? Ray’s going to need the help.”

Still silent. Finally I said, “Dad, are you there?”

“Did he do it?” my father finally asked.

“Did he do what?”

“Did he kill this Afghan child?” The question felt like he’d thrown something at me.

“No!”

“How do you know?”

“Because Ray wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“Come now. You hardly know him. And people do things in wartime that you could never imagine. I’ve sat across the table in negotiations with mass murderers, and they were polite to a fault, always.”

“That’s the most disturbing thing you’ve ever said, Dad.”

“Perhaps, but it’s also true.”

“Dad. Ray didn’t do it. He reported it, okay? I’m not asking you to pass judgment on him, I’m asking you for your help. You’ve been in the government your whole life. Surely you know someone.”

He sighed. “Let me think on it, and I’ll call you.”

The relief that flooded me was overwhelming. I swallowed and asked, “When?”

“Tomorrow. I may need to make some calls.”

“Thank you,” I said. I struggled to find the right words, then said, “Tell Mom and the twins I said hello? I love you.”

“Love you too, Carrie.”

We hung up, and I set my phone down on the counter in the kitchen, and walked out to the balcony. Ray didn’t move when I slid the door open. He was still standing, tense, wound up. I slid my arms around his sides and he jerked in response.

“Shit,” he said. “Sorry. I was ... far away.”

That just made me tighten my arms around him a little more. I rested my chin on his shoulder and said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he said. “Mostly I want to forget it ever happened.”

I squeezed him, tightly, and he took my right hand in his. We stood in silence for a few minutes, and then he said, “Carrie….”

“Mmhmm?”

“Listen to me. I can’t say this more than once. But if I go to prison….”

I interrupted. “You’re not going to prison.”

“Just listen, please. If ... if I go to prison, you’re not to even think about doing anything noble. Waiting for me or whatever. I couldn’t take it if the war came back and messed up your life, too.”

I shivered, and a wave of sadness swept over me with the force of a tidal wave. “Stop it, Ray,” I said, and I hated it that my voice quavered as I spoke.

“I mean it. If