The General's Daughter (30 page)

“I suppose you have no choice.”

“None whatsoever.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have any other suspects?”

“Not at the moment. But I have some good leads.”

“That’s encouraging. Anything further?”

“I’m starting to turn up evidence that Captain Campbell… how shall I put this…? That Captain Campbell had an active social
life.”

Dead silence.

So I continued, “It was inevitable that this would come out. I don’t know if this relates to her murder, but I’ll do my best
to keep this in perspective and to minimize the damage to the fort and the Army if this information should become public,
and so on.”

“Why don’t we meet at, say, 0700 hours at my house for coffee?”

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you at home at that hour.”

“Mr. Brenner, you are borderline insubordinate and definitely pissing me off. Be here at 0700 hours sharp.”

“Yes, sir.” The phone went dead. I said to Cynthia, “I’ll have to speak to the Signal Corps people about the phone service
at Fort Hadley.”

“What did he say?”

“Colonel Fowler asks that we join him for coffee, 0700, his house.”

She looked at her watch. “Well, we can get a little sleep. Ready?”

I looked around. Most of the hangar was in darkness now, and most of the cots were filled with sleeping men and women, though
a few diehards were still at it, bent over typewriters, test tubes, and microscopes. “Okay, half a day today.”

As we walked through the hangar, I asked Cynthia, “Did they find her West Point ring in that bag of clothes?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“And it hasn’t turned up in her household possessions yet?”

“No, I asked Cal about it.”

“Odd.”

“She may have lost it,” Cynthia said. “Maybe it’s being cleaned.”

“Maybe.”

Cynthia said to me, “Paul, if we had found her on that rifle range alive, and she was right here with us now, what would you
say to her?”

“What would
you
say to her? You’re the rape counselor.”

“I’m asking
you.
”

“Okay. I’d say to her that whatever happened in the past should be dealt with in a healthy way, not a destructive way. That
she needed good counseling, not bad counseling, that she should try to find a spiritual answer to her pain, that she should
try to forgive the person or persons who… mistreated her and took advantage of her. I’d tell her she was an important and
worthwhile human being with a lot to live for, and that people would care about her in a good way if she started caring about
herself. That’s what I’d say to her.”

Cynthia nodded. “Yes, that’s what someone should have said to her. Maybe someone did. But something bad happened to her, and
what we see and hear is her response to that. This type of behavior in a bright, educated, attractive, and professionally
successful woman is often the result of… some past trauma.”

“Such as?”

We left the hangar and walked out into the cool evening. The moon had set and you could see a billion stars in the clear Georgia
sky. I looked out across the huge dark expanse of Jordan Field, recalling when it was lit every night, and remembering a particular
flight that used to come in after midnight two or three times a week. I said to Cynthia, “I unloaded bodies from Vietnam here.”

She didn’t respond.

I said, “If they don’t bury her here in Midland, this is where everyone will gather after church to see her off. Tomorrow
or the next day, I guess.”

“Will we be here?”

“I plan to be.”

We went to her car and she said to me, “In answer to your question… I think her father is the key to her behavior. You know,
a domineering figure, pushed her into the military, tried to control her life, a weak mother, extended absences, lots of moving
around the world, total dependence on and deference to his career. She rebels in the only way she knows how. It’s all pretty
much textbook stuff.”

We got in the car and I said, “Right. But there are a million well-adjusted daughters out there with the same backgrounds.”

“I know. But it’s how you handle it.”

“I’m thinking about a more… abnormal relationship with her father that would explain her hate.”

We headed toward the gates of the airfield. She said, “I know what you’re saying, and I thought that, too. But if you think
rape and murder are hard to prove, try proving incest. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you, Paul. That one could hurt you.”

“Right. My first case as a CID officer was a barracks theft. Look how far I’ve come. Next step, the abyss.”

C
ynthia parked at the VOQ, and we took the outside staircase up to the second floor and found our rooms. “Well,” she said,
“good night.”

“Well,” I replied, “I’m bursting with energy, second wind, too wound up to sleep, adrenaline pumping, and all that. How about
a little TV and a drink?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’d be better off not sleeping at this point. You’ll feel worse when you have to get up. We’ll just relax, shower, change,
and off to Colonel Fowler’s.”

“Well, maybe… but…”

“Come on in.” I opened my door, and she followed me inside. She picked up the phone and called the charge-of-quarters person
and left a wake-up call for 0530 hours. She said to me, “Just in case we pass out.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Well, as it turns out, I can’t offer you a drink, and I don’t see a TV here. How about charades?”

“Paul…”

“Yes?”

“I can’t do this.”

“Then how about rock, scissors, and paper? Do you know how to play that? It’s easy—”

“I can’t stay here. This has been an upsetting day for me. This wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be any good, anyway.” And so
on.

I said, “I understand. Go get some sleep. I’ll call you when I get the wake-up call.”

“Okay. Sorry. I’ll leave the bathroom doors unbolted.”

“Fine. See you in a few hours.”

“Good night.” She went toward the bathroom door, turned and came back, kissed me lightly on the lips, started to cry, then
disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water running, then heard the other door open to her room, then silence.

I undressed and hung my clothes and got into bed. I must have passed out within seconds, then the next thing I remember is
the phone ringing. I answered it, expecting to hear a wake-up call, or hear Cynthia’s voice asking me to come to her room.
But, no, it was the deep, bass voice of Colonel Fowler. “Brenner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sleeping?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Do you take milk?”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t have any milk or cream, Brenner.”

“That’s okay—”

“I wanted to let you know.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

I thought I heard a laugh before the phone went dead. My watch said it was nearly five A.M., so I got up, stumbled into the
bathroom, turned on the shower, and got under it. What a day. Half of it didn’t even seem real. I was firing on two cylinders
and my tank was on empty. But I needed about forty-eight more hours at this pace, then I’d be out of here in a blaze of glory,
or I’d crash in flames.

Personal and career considerations aside, there was something very wrong here at Fort Hadley, a festering sore, and it needed
to be lanced and washed clean. That much I knew I could do.

Through the rippled glass and steam on the shower door, I saw a figure standing in the entrance to Cynthia’s room. “Okay if
I come in?”

“Sure.”

She was wearing something white, probably a nightshirt, and disappeared into the stall where the toilet was. A few minutes
later she reappeared and went to the sink, her back to me. She washed her face and called out over the noise of the shower,
“How do you feel?”

“Fine. How about you?”

“Not bad. Did I hear your phone ring?”

“Yes. Colonel Fowler. Just a harassment call.”

She laughed. “You deserve it.” She began brushing her teeth.

My phone rang again, and I said, “That’s the CQ. Can you get it?”

She rinsed her mouth. “Sure.” She went into my room and came back a few seconds later. “It’s five-thirty.” She went back to
the sink, gargled, then asked me, “Are you taking one of your marathon showers?”

“Yes. Do you want to save time?”

Silence. Maybe that was too subtle. “Cynthia?”

She turned away from the sink, and I heard her say to herself, “Oh, what the hell.”

I saw her pull off her nightshirt, and she opened the shower door and stepped inside. “Do my back.”

So I did. Then I did her front. We embraced and kissed, and the water ran over us, and our bodies pressed closer together.
The body remembers an old lover, I think, and a flood of good memories came back to me, and it was as if we were in Brussels
again. Woody remembered, too, and rose happily, like an old hound dog whose master walks in the door after a year’s absence.
Ruff, ruff!

“Paul… it’s all right… go ahead.”

“Yes, it’s all right. It’s good. Here or in bed?”

“Here. Now.”

But, as luck would have it, the phone rang again, and she said, “You’d better get that.”

“Damn it!” We separated, and Cynthia hung the washcloth on my hook and laughed.

I threw the washcloth aside and said, “Don’t go anywhere.” I got out of the shower, grabbed a towel on my way, and picked
up the phone on my nightstand. “Brenner here.”

“Well, now, you’re a hell of a hard man to find.”

“Who’s this?”

“It ain’t your mommy, son.”

“Oh…”

Chief Yardley informed me, “Bill Kent just told me you decided to stay on post. Why don’t you come on home to your trailer?”

“What?”

“I spent the whole damn day tryin’ to figure where you were at, and I get here and you’re AWOL, boy. Come on home.”

“What the hell—are you in my trailer?”

“Sure thing, Paul. But you ain’t.”

“Hey, Chief, do you practice that cracker accent, or what?”

“Sure ’nuf, boy.” He laughed. “Hey, tell you what—I’m cleanin’ this place out for you. No use payin’ rent someplace you ain’t
gonna see again.”

“You have no right—”

“Hold that thought awhile, son. We might get back to that. Meantime, come on down to my office and gather up your stuff.”

“Chief, there is government property in there—”

“Yeah, I saw that. Had to bust a lock. Got a gun here, some official-lookin’ papers, some weird book fulla codes or somethin’…
what else we got here? Pair of cuffs, some uniforms and ID from a guy named White… you sleepin’ with some guy?”

Cynthia came into the room wrapped in a bath towel and sat on the bed. I said to Yardley, “Okay, you skunked me.”

“Let’s see… box of rubbers, prissy little bikini shorts . . that yours or your boyfriend’s?”

“Chief—”

“Tell you what, son—you come on over to the station and pick this here stuff up. I’ll be waitin’ on ya.”

“You deliver the government property to the provost office. I’ll meet you there at noon.”

“Let me think on that awhile.”

“You do that. And bring Wes with you. I’d like to talk to him.”

Silence, followed by, “You can talk to him at my office.”

“I’ll just wait to see him at the funeral service here. I assume he’ll attend.”

“I reckon he will. But we don’t conduct business at funerals around here,”

“You should. That’s where everybody shows up after a murder.”

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you talk to him because I want to see the son-of-a-bitch who done this in the pokey. But I’m
lettin’ you know now, my boy was on duty when it happened, and his partner will verify that, and we got tapes of his radio
calls all night.”

“I’m sure of that. Meanwhile, you can have access to the hangar as of now. I want to send my lab people to Captain Campbell’s
house.”

“Yeah? What for? Y’all took every damn thing. My boys had to bring their own damn toilet paper.”

“I’ll see you and Wes at noon. Bring my stuff and the government’s stuff.”

“Don’t hold your breath, son.”

He hung up, and I stood, wrapping the towel around me. Cynthia asked, “Burt Yardley?”

“Sure ’nuf.”

“What did he want?”

“My ass, mostly. The SOB cleaned out my trailer.” I laughed. “I like this guy. Too many wimps around these days. This guy
is a genuine, hard-ass old prick.”

“That’ll be you next year.”

“I hope so.” I looked at my watch on the nightstand. “It’s ten after six. Do we have time?”

She stood. “I have to dry my hair, get dressed, do my face—”

“All right. Rain check?”

“Sure.” She walked to the bathroom door, then turned and asked me, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Yes. Colonel Fowler at seven, then Moore about eight—”

“I forgot, you don’t like that expression. Are you romantically involved with anyone?”

“No, I’m kind of between meaningful relationships at the moment. Truth is, no one since you.”

“Good. Keeps it simple.”

“Right. Except for Major what’s-his-name. Your husband?”

“I’m very clear about that now.”

“That’s encouraging. We don’t want a repeat of Brussels, do we?”

She laughed. “Sorry. Why do I find that funny?”

“Because you weren’t looking down the muzzle of the gun.”

“No, but you didn’t have to listen to him for the next year. But, okay, Paul, I owe you for that. I’ll pay off tonight, then
we’ll see where it goes.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me, too.” She hesitated, then said, “You’re too obsessed with… this case. You need a release.”

“You’re a sensitive and nurturing partner.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, and I found yesterday’s shorts and yesterday’s socks. I got dressed, thinking, as I went
through the motions, that life is a series of complications, some small, like where to get clean underwear, some a little
bigger, like the one who just left the room. How you handle life depends a lot on how you handle plan B, or if you have a
plan B.

Anyway, as I checked to see if my Glock had a firing pin and ammunition, I considered that the time had come for me to settle
down a bit, and that what I didn’t need anymore was a little light sport-fucking now and then.