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

always killed me. You see all that yellow ribbon “Support Our Troops” crap, and soldiers being called heroes in the media. But the only real hero I knew was Kowalski, who didn’t even hesitate one fucking second when it was time to decide between his life and that little girl’s. I doubt he ever had time to think about it, to rationalize it, to weigh anything.

I’m not a big one for public displays of emotion of any kind. But talking about that day, thinking about that day, made my eyes water.

“I’m done for today, Major.”

“I told you, don’t call me that.”

“Fine. Not another word.”

“Fine. See you tomorrow. 9 a.m.—get some rest.”

I nodded and slid back my chair.

He said, “Kowalski sounds like he was a real guy.”

“He was a complete prick. But he did the right thing when it counted.”

I headed out the door without another word.

I was halfway across to NIH before I called Carrie. I was a mess, and my thoughts were turning back to Kowalski and the disaster that day turned out to be. The thing is, I still hadn’t visited his mom and his little girl. I’d been home for months, and I hadn’t even made the effort. I wasn’t sure I could face them, and I sure as hell wasn’t sure I could look his mother in the eye and tell her what happened to him in any detail.

I had to clear my head and at least try to show a brave face for Carrie. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, then dialed her number. She didn’t pick up. Damn. I kept walking. I was almost to the car anyway. She’d call back soon.

When I got to the car, I walked around it in a circle. God, what a beast. It was a black so glossy you could see your reflection in it, even though that model hadn’t originally been made in black. Thirty-five years old, with half a million miles, and it ran like it had just rolled off the assembly line. Well, except lately it had been kind of bitchy about starting sometimes. Carrie had sent it to the Mercedes dealership twice in the last two months to get worked on, and they’d sworn there wouldn’t be any further problems. We’d see.

I lit a cigarette and leaned against the car. I had a half-decent book to read on my phone until she got off work.

Five minutes later I spotted her. She was moving across the parking lot, quickly, her face pale. I stamped out my cigarette and put the phone away and moved toward her. She looked at me, and my heart fell through my stomach, because the moment she met my eyes her face broke up in the worst pain I’d ever seen her in. Tears started pouring out of her eyes, and I pulled her to me, wrapping my arms around her, as if that could somehow protect her from whatever the hell it was.

“Jesus Christ, Carrie, what’s wrong?”

She just shook her head and pressed her face against my shoulder. Her whole body was shaking, and I couldn’t tell if it was anger or grief or what. She didn’t want to talk, so I just held her. Her breathing was ragged, and then she muttered, “I could kill someone right now. We need to go. Now.”

She took out her keys, hands shaking as she unlocked the door.

I eyed the shaking hand and said, “You want me to drive?”

“No,” she said. “I need something I can control.”

No clue what the problem was, but that I could understand. Whatever was eating her, it was bad. I got in the other side, and she turned the key, muttering, “You better fucking start,” under her breath. I watched her. Carrie rarely cursed, although I knew I’d been a bad influence on her on that front.

The car started, the engine a low hum, and she put it in gear and we pulled out. Only when we were sitting in the traffic slowly exiting NIH onto Old Georgetown Road did she start to tell me the story.

By the time she was done, we were almost home, and my mind was reeling. The thought that Carrie of all people had been accused of falsifying research? It was laughable. It was ... appalling. And the worst part was, people would believe it. Just like they’d believe that I pulled the trigger.

“We’re getting drinks tonight. A lot of them,” I said.

“Deal,” she replied, her voice fierce. “Let’s go change, then go. I’m so angry I could scream.”

Since we were only going to be home for a few minutes, she pulled the car into the valet parking lane in front of the condo and shut it off. I think both of us breathed a sigh of relief. Until we saw the fucking gaggle of reporters, and the reporters saw us, and started running over.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she screamed.

“Let’s just go,” I said.

“You can’t go out in uniform.”

“We’ll stop at Target or something and I’ll buy clothes.”

She nodded and cranked the car. And the damn thing wouldn’t turn over. Again. She sagged in her seat and leaned her head against the steering wheel.

“Jesus,” I said. “Try again?”

She tried to crank it. Not a sound. I sighed, frustrated, angry. But then, suddenly, I saw us as we’d been the day before. Curled up in bed watching movies and eating popcorn and having sex like a couple of horny teenagers. And I blurted out, “Would it help if I got out and pushed?”

She was leaning against the steering wheel, her eyes closed, when I asked the question. But then she snickered. Just a little. And the tiniest, smallest bit of a smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. She gave me a disbelieving look and said, “It might,” and I said, “Look, let’s just run for it.”

She nodded, gathered her purse, and we both opened our doors at the same time. I hurried to move around to the front, and she