Page 25 of A Deeper Darkness
“What is the matter, Dr. Owens?”
“Call me Sam, please.” She used her gloved finger to roll some of the granulomas. “I meant this. This looks like a more recent irritant. He’s been back over three years. This has been caused by a recent inhalation. But how can that be?”
She had Nocek’s interest now. Both lungs were put on the dissection board. They each took a side and began to cut. A few moments later, he held a sliver of tissue up to the light, turning it to and fro.
“You are correct, Doctor…excuse me. Sam. There is old scar tissue from the sand, but there is also newer, fresher areas of irritation, in the air sacs. See here, in the central tracheobronchial tree? It’s barely visible, but it’s there.”
“Yes. I see it.”
He moved to Donovan’s head, took up a small swab, directed it up the left nostril. He pulled it back and examined it. “And a minuscule amount here, in the maxillary sinus cavity. And more irritation to the trachea. This is certainly a more recent occurrence.”
He snapped the swab into a tube, then laid his long-boned fingers across his chest. “We must have these tested immediately. The presence of the penetrating gunshot wound may have misguided our initial examination. As head of the department, I take full responsibility.”
Nocek looked pained. Sam felt bad for him. It was an easy miss.
“Well, I appreciate that, but before we go jumping to conclusions, let’s finish and see if there’s anything else left to find.”
Chapter Thirteen
McLean, Virginia
Susan Donovan
Susan glanced at the clock, saw it was 10:30. Damn it. The morning had gotten away from her. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, lost in thought, for the better part of two hours. A cup of coffee had gone cold and scummy at her elbow. The papers were spread before her: a copy of Eddie’s will, the investments, insurance and bank statements. Since he’d returned from overseas, she’d let him handle the finances. It gave him a sense of control. Now she had to see where they stood.
She got up and dumped the coffee in the sink, poured herself a fresh cup. Skipped the milk and sugar. The sugar tasted wrong somehow, cloying and overpowering. Poisoned by memories. Eddie had drunk his coffee black. She would do so, as well.
The war had changed him. She knew how difficult it had been for him over there, and how hard he tried to fit back into the fabric of their lives once he returned. Warriors home from battle often slipped into depression, felt alien to their own lives. Without that purpose, that daily rush of adrenaline, the overwhelming courage it took to go back out on the roads, day after day after day, knowing someone was waiting to kill you, many foundered. There were no enemy combatants waiting in the bushes outside Safeway. But after years of being on guard, of not knowing if your next step was your last, they didn’t know any other way to live.
Eddie had managed rather well, considering. There were others who didn’t. There’d already been one suicide from his old unit. When Eddie heard, he’d locked himself in the study for hours, refusing to come out until Susan threatened to call the police. She understood when he tried to push her away, and knew she had to do everything in her power not to let him. When that happened, bad things followed.
Susan was still a part of the support group for their unit, for the women whose husbands continued their tours of duty overseas. She wanted out. Dear God, she wanted out. But she had so much experience, so much to offer these young wives and fiancées and girlfriends and mothers, that she didn’t feel right leaving. Eddie may have left the Army, but the Army never leaves the family.
Now that he was gone, she’d have the excuse.
She should check in on the Listserv, if only to say thank you. The flowers they’d sent were dead now, wilted in their plastic homes, but the donation confirmations were still pouring in. They’d both been very active in the Wounded Warrior Project—and many of their friends had honored Eddie’s memory by giving to the organization. She knew everyone was hoping and praying for her. She knew it. Even if she’d rather they forget she existed so she could crawl into a hole and never come out, she knew they cared.
They’d want the details on the service. Susan had spent too much time at Arlington National Cemetery. She knew exactly what to expect. And the women she’d comforted would attend by her side, walking the rows of white marble, the grass green and soft beneath their feet, the ground around them under constant disturbance, to his grave site. They’d hold her fingers, trapped in their own, and hand her tissues for her dry eyes. Just like she’d done when their husbands were being put in the ground.
When the calls started, Eleanor had stepped in and organized everything. She had taken care of parceling the food; Susan wouldn’t have to cook for weeks. Thank God Eddie made her buy that freezer. He’d decided he wanted to be a hunter one year, and they had no room for the spoils, so they’d bought a wide, deep white freezer secondhand and found a spot for it in the garage. He’d filled it up with meat from his kills. She understood his sudden impulse. He’d spent so many years with a gun in his hands that he didn’t know what to do with them empty. Hunting was an outlet, much more than just exercise and fresh air.
Venison. Another thing she’d have to give up. Like the sugar. Gone like her husband.
She wondered sometimes, what exactly he’d seen over there. He’d given her bits and pieces, enough to paint a rather gruesome picture, but there were still nights when he’d wake, crying out, and she could see the carnage reflected back in his wide, blank eyes. Demons followed him back from every tour. But he’d made it through every time. Damn it, they’d made it through.
And now this.
What the hell did the note mean?Do the right thing.It implied he’d done something wrong. Her husband wasn’t the type to do bad things. It just didn’t make sense.
And why hadn’t he shared it with her? What was he trying to hide?
Susan sat back at the table and stared at the stack of papers. She needed to be alone. To take the girls somewhere, be quiet and simple for a while. Away from this town, which had killed Eddie in the end, after all.
The phone rang. She didn’t want to answer it. But the caller ID was familiar. St. John’s Academy. The school they’d chosen for the girls. Even though they weren’t Catholic, they’d both agreed that children needed structure, discipline and respect. St. John’s promised that kind of character building, in spades.
Heart in her throat, she clicked the talk button.
“Mrs. Donovan, this is the headmaster. I’m afraid I need you to come by my office and retrieve Alina.”
