But the guy wasn’t going to pull a vanishing act again. This time they were going to talk.
20
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 0856 Hours
Megan sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair in the waiting room to Chaplain Augustus Trimble’s office. Trimble was the ranking chaplain at the base, handpicked by General Amos Braddock for the position.
The waiting room was neat and immaculate. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase of pamphlets and Bibles and books occupied one wall. The room was quiet and contained. The heavy wood desk looked like it had been carved from a giant redwood tree and was as imposing as a battleship.
In the hallway, the din of the Joint Services Counseling Center remained constant. Men and women filled with desperate need or panic talked to personnel, pleading for help and understanding. The voices entered the room as a steady undercurrent of noise. All of those people sought help or hope in the face of the current dilemma.
Joint Services saw to financial and medical needs of military personnel and their families, providing planning and counseling and correction when necessary. They also liaised with local-government and law-enforcement bodies in the event of criminal or civil litigation involving members of the post.
But the chaplain’s office was there to attend to the post’s spiritual needs as well.
Sitting there as she had been for some time, listening to the people talking to the overworked receptionists manning the in-take tables, Megan felt guilty and nervous. She felt guilty because she wasn’t working with the other counselors to take care of the teens left in their care. The nervousness came from the fact that she was about to approach Chaplain Trimble on a loaded issue. She had even more guilt because she felt nervous about even bringing the topic up. She didn’t have the right to question the man’s methods, his professionalism, or his faith.
Yet she was prepared to do all of that.
Jenny’s talk in the hospital last evening had weighed heavily on Megan’s mind the rest of the night. Despite the good news that Leslie Hollister was out of immediate danger and was, potentially, on her way to a full recovery, Megan hadn’t rested well. Though the Gander house was stacked with teens and she was currently sharing her bedroom with some of the girls, Megan felt the absence of her family.
After lying awake for an hour after an imposed curfew, she’d gotten up and retreated to the patio and sat outside with the portable, battery-powered TV the family used on camping trips. She’d watched the news, learning little more about the situation in Sanliurfa, Turkey, where Goose was posted. In the end, her thoughts constantly whirling, she’d found the book about the end times that Jenny had read and talked about.
Sipping the leftover chicken noodle soup to combat the early morning chill, Megan had started reading until she finally couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She’d gotten three hours sleep, and she’d dreamed constantly that the teens she was watching over were lost to the darkness because they didn’t know what they were supposed to do now that the world had changed.
When she’d finally sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and awake at last, Megan had felt certain she knew what she was supposed to do.
She’d called Joint Services in the hopes of talking to one of the chaplains. She’d been surprised when Chaplain Trimble’s personal assistant fielded the call and told her that Trimble himself would see her.
Megan had taken the invitation as a good sign. Now, however, after being kept waiting for so long, she was beginning to wonder. Her cell phone rang and she answered it. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Gander?” The voice at the other end of the connection belonged to a young lieutenant named Doug Benbow. Benbow was currently assigned as her legal representative regarding charges of dereliction of duty in the Gerry Fletcher matter.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Megan replied.
“I thought we had a meeting this morning.”
Another wave of guilt washed over Megan. “I’m sorry. We did have a meeting. I forgot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Benbow said politely. “After the night you had last night, I can see how that would happen.”
Megan felt uncomfortable. She wasn’t prone to forgetting things. Usually she was very organized. “I take it you heard about Leslie Hollister.”
Benbow hesitated, then either felt that honesty was the best policy or that he was a weak liar even if he had good intentions. “Yes, ma’am. And I have to tell you, this isn’t going to help our situation.”
The Boyd Fletcher situation, Megan thought. Boyd Fletcher was the father of Gerry Fletcher, the boy Megan had tried to save from falling from a rooftop the night of the disappearances. Boyd Fletcher had brought the charges forward to the provost marshal’s office, and Provost Marshal Frank Marion had filed the documentation against Megan.
“Ma’am,” Benbow said, “we had discussed the hope of you maintaining a low profile. At least until we get the hearing out of the way.”
“Yes, we did, Lieutenant.” Frustration chafed at Megan. “I hadn’t planned on Leslie Hollister ending up in the hospital last night either.” Benbow sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I know that. I’m sorry. That’s not how I meant that to come out.”
Chaplain Trimble’s receptionist answered her phone, then looked up at Megan. She covered the mouthpiece. “The chaplain will see you now.”
“Thank you,” Megan responded, covering her own mouthpiece.
The receptionist was sixty if she was a day, matronly with an edgy professionalism and a no-nonsense approach to doing business. Since she’d stepped into the room, Megan hadn’t felt an ounce of warmth from the woman.
“I’ve got to go, Lieutenant,” Megan said.
“Mrs. Gander, we really need to talk. There are some things you need to know. There have been some … changes in how our situation is working out.” The lieutenant’s tone was ominous, and he clearly didn’t sound happy.
A look of cold irritation filled the receptionist’s gaze. She
