We never found the sniper. I winced at the memory of Hicks and Sergeant Colton putting Weber’s junk back in his pants before zipping him in the body bag. No way in hell were we going to let some rear-echelon motherfucker use Weber for laughs. We were all grim, silent, as we got him into the bag. Colton was shaking with so much anger he had to try three times before he could get a grip on the zipper.
It’s not that I dwell on that shit. It’s just that … the war got so ugly after Kowalski was killed. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to even think about it without becoming overwhelmed with rage. The shadow of the month between Kowalski’s death and Weber’s casts darkness over everything, even the short time I’d been with Carrie.
It’s easy to get caught up. Even now, at a time when I’ve probably got much bigger things to worry about. But seriously, bigger to who? Did I have any more right to life than that kid in Dega Payan? He was twelve years old, maybe. And he died just like Weber did, a bullet through the forehead, and I didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
I needed to get my shit together and focus. Carrie was here and needed help.
I just wished I knew what I could do for her. Increasingly, it seemed that the answer to that was nothing.
Carrie and Jessica were finished at the desk. They half-walked, half-stumbled to a pair of seats against the wall. I crouched, leaning against the wall, next to Carrie.
“She can’t tell you’re there,” Sarah said. “You might as well be a million miles away.”
“Shut up, Sarah.”
“You might as well be dead.”
I sighed and looked up at her. “I’m sorry I got mad.”
“Whatever, Ray. I get it, okay. You lost friends. Things sucked over there. But that doesn’t take away from how bad this sucks, all right? I had plans for my life.”
I dropped my eyes to the floor and said, “It’s not over yet, kid.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the surgeons aren’t out here telling them we’re dead, all right? We’ve still got a chance.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling.
Jesus. It’s kind of funny. Dylan was always the king of drama queens. I mean, who the hell shoots a clip of ammo through their laptop? But Sarah just might have the edge on him.
On the other hand, she might be right.
“What kind of plans?” I asked.
Her face scrunched up in a skeptical look. “Seriously?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Musician.”
“Oh yeah? Like Crank?”
She smiled. “Better.”
“Nice. That’s why you were showing off the guitar with Crank at New Year’s.”
Our brother-in-law Crank was the lead-singer and guitarist for the very successful alt-rock band Morbid Obesity. I had a chance to see them in concert for the first time back at New Year’s, right before everything went to hell. Carrie got us backstage passes.
I looked over at her. “Your parents don’t know, do they?”
She smirked. “Are you kidding? They’d have a heart attack. As it was, when I got the guitar, my father went all pale and wandered off to his study, and Mom had an anxiety attack. She’s not as bad as she used to be, just ... very controlling. But you know, I’ve played viola since I was tiny. It was time for something new.”
“Viola?”
She nodded. “All of us had lessons. Mom says it’s part of being a well-rounded person.” Sarah curled her fingers into air quotes as she said the words well-rounded person. She continued. “Jessica plays violin.”
“What about Carrie?” I asked. I’d never seen her touch any instrument.
“She hated it. She loves music, but not being a musician. But she studied cello right up into high school.”
I glanced over at Carrie. She had her arm around Jessica, who was leaning against her. Both of them had their eyes closed. “I wish I could have known her back then.”
Sarah said, in almost a whisper, “She’s the best big sister. Always watched out for us and took us places. Gave us hugs and Band-Aids and even after she left home, we talked on the phone almost every day. She’s what I imagine a mother would be like, if my mother wasn’t crazy.”
I sighed as she said the words. We’d had a conversation about that, just once. Most of the time, we didn’t talk about the future. Most of the time, our only goal was to get through the present. But we did talk about kids, just once.
It was during a phone conversation. Carrie had returned to Texas, and I was in New York, helping out Dylan and trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life now that I was out of the Army. That night, I had been sitting on the roof of Dylan’s apartment building, looking out over the rooftops and at Morningside Park. It was unseasonably warm, just a couple of days before Thanksgiving last fall, and we were having one of our many long, long phone conversations.
“What are you doing?” she had asked.
“Thinking about you,” I said.
“Stop that,” she replied. I could almost hear her blush.
“Stop what? I’ve also been working on applications. And babysitting Dylan.”
“Applications? Where are you thinking about?”
I sighed. Awkward question, because I’d given a lot of thought to a few places. “American University. Georgetown. Columbia … Berkeley ... Rice.”
“Oh yeah? Why Rice?”
“Lot warmer in Texas than Long Island.”
She laughed. “How do you rate your chances?”
“Good. I know I seem like a knucklehead, but I’ve got a 3.9
