“I think just, you know, seeing the progress made by his friends,” said O’Toole. “They’re walking now. Shoot, some of them are running. He sees his buddies joking and smoking, and he’s thinking, I need to get on with my life and get some prosthetics.”
“Is he certain?” said Kendall.
“He’s as close as you can get to it,” said O’Toole.
“Voluntary amputation is a complex decision. It’s one thing to have it done out of necessity, postinjury. But to say, I want you to remove my legs…”
“It’s not that simple on the logistical side, either. He’s got to make his request formally to a group of doctors and officers. It’s almost like a hearing. I mean, it takes a while for the procedure to be approved. I’d hate to see Private Collins change his mind again while all the red tape is being sorted out.”
“I’ll get the ball rolling,” said Kendall, “if that’s what he wants. I’m due to see him today on my rounds.”
“Thank you, Miss Robertson.”
Kendall nodded. “Sergeant Major.”
O’Toole left the office. When the door closed, Monroe raised his eyebrows at Kendall, who smiled.
“Yeah, I know,” said Kendall. “When is it going to be an easy day around here?”
Monroe got out of his chair. Kendall stood and walked into his arms.
“You’re doin good, baby.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“I guess I’m having lunch by myself today.”
“Looks like it. I want to get started on this Collins thing.”
He kissed her softly. They enjoyed a long embrace in the quiet of the room.
Alex Pappas had secured a visitor’s pass through the AW2 offices so he could get through the security gates of Walter Reed without undue hassle. Because he was making quick deliveries, he usually parked his Jeep on the grass near the Fisher Houses, estate-sized brick homes that functioned as hotels where parents, siblings, girl- and boyfriends, and spouses stayed near wounded soldiers during their treatment and recovery.
Alex retrieved his desserts, neatly arranged in a large fold-up box, and carried them around the back of Fisher House II, where wrought iron tables were set up on a patio, a quiet outdoor spot where soldiers and family could find some peace, smoke cigarettes, or talk on their cells. A rear door led to an extralarge state-of-the-art kitchen shared by the residents. Food was made available here at all hours, often in elaborate spreads.
“Hello, Peggy,” said Alex to a woman who had just cleared a granite countertop and was now wiping it down. Peggy Stawinski, a middle-aged blonde, had a son who was currently serving in Afghanistan. She volunteered her time in both Fisher Houses, as well as the Mologne House, an older, more elegant structure that also served as a hotel.
“Hey, Alex. You can put that stuff down right here.”
Alex set the box on the counter and pulled its contents. “Got a few things today. It all came in this morning, so it’s fresh.”
“What’s that?” said Peggy, pointing to half a cake swirled pink and red.
“They call it Marionberry cheesecake.”
“You’re kidding.”
“They were going for cute.”
“You want some coffee? I just brewed it.”
“I’m parked on the grass,” said Alex. “I better get home.”
“Thank you. This all looks great.”
“My pleasure. How’s the library doing?”
“We could always use more books.”
“I’m gonna bring some paperbacks. Detective stuff. I got too many lying around. My wife is on my back to get rid of them.”
“Okay, Alex. Bye.”
He stopped by weeknights on his way home from work, but he never stayed to mingle with the soldiers or their families. He said he didn’t have the time to hang around. He didn’t want their thanks. He was parked on the grass. He had to go.
Raymond Monroe walked the grounds of the facility, staying after his shift to catch a ride with Kendall, who was late getting off work. Especially going west, away from the hospital, the grounds were green and landscaped with old-growth oak, maple trees, and flowering cherry and magnolia. It had been announced that the Walter Reed complex would move out of D.C. in the next ten years. Officials had been wavering on the decision as of late, but the stay of execution would only be temporary. One hundred and thirteen valuable acres in the middle of the city-it was inevitable that the facility would go.
Turning the corner of one of the Fisher homes, he nearly walked into a white man about his age, just coming out the back door. Monroe was used to deformity, what with all the wounded, amputees, and burn victims he treated. But there was something else about this man, aside from the horrible droop of his right eye, that unsettled Monroe immediately.
“ ’Scuse me, buddy,” said Monroe, putting his hand on the man’s arm as he moved to step around him.
“Excuse me, ” said the man, who went on his way.
Monroe stopped at the back door of the Fisher House and looked at the man walking to his vehicle, a Jeep Cherokee parked on the grass. He studied the man for a moment longer, flashing on those days after, that painful time in court. He pushed on the door and entered the house.
Peggy Stawinski stood in the kitchen, setting out some cakes and pies on the long counter. “Raymond. Funny how you just happened to stop by as soon I put these out.”
“You know I like sweet things, Peggy. Like you.”
“Stop.”
Monroe often came in to say hello to Peggy. Both of them had sons under fire.
“I’m waitin on my girlfriend. Killing time.” Monroe reached for something on the counter, and Peggy gently slapped his hand. “That does look good, though.”
“Marionberry cheesecake.”
“Clever.”
“Want a cup of coffee?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Monroe ran a finger along his thin black mustache. “Listen, who was that man who just left out of here? Had on a white shirt and work pants.”
“He owns a lunch place downtown, at Connecticut and N. Brings us desserts every night on his way home.”
“Just to, what, show his support?”
“He lost a son in Iraq.”
Monroe nodded.
“His name is Alex Pappas,” said Peggy.
“Pappas.”
Alex Pappas had been the boy’s name. He knew Pappas was the Greek version of Smith or Jones. Still, there was the eye, and this erased any doubt. The boy would have carried that mark his whole life. Charles Baker had seen to that.
“You know him?” said Peggy.
Monroe didn’t answer. He was thinking.
Eight
Charles Baker sat in Leo’s, a neighborhood watering hole on Georgia Avenue, near a flower-and-tree cross street in Shepherd Park. On the wood before him was a glass of draft beer that he had been nursing for some time. He was reading a newspaper and waiting on his ride.
Baker went through the Washington Post front to back. He did this daily. Though he had opened neither
