Deadline

“I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are. I watched a zombie movie on TV last night. You’d fit right in.”

Dawson sighed over his godfather’s tenacity. He didn’t turn around, but he propped his shoulder against the window frame. “I’m tired is all. Spend nine months in Afghanistan—trust me, it’ll wear you out. Hostile terrain. Temperature extremes. Bugs that bite. No booze. No women except for the service members, and hooking up with one of them is tricky. A good way for both partners to get into some seriously deep shit. Hardly makes getting laid worth the hassle.”

“You’ve had time since you got back to find an obliging lady.”

“Ah, but there’s a problem with that.” He closed the shutters, turned around, and grinned. “You got the last great girl.”

The levity fell flat. The worry line between Headly’s thick eyebrows didn’t relax.

Dropping the pretense, Dawson returned to the chair, spread his knees, and stared at the floor.

Headly asked, “Are you sleeping?”

“It’s getting better.”

“In other words, you’re not.”

Dawson raised his head and said testily, “It’s getting better. It’s not easy jumping back into the thick of things, returning to an ordinary schedule.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that. What else?”

Dawson pushed back his hair. “This Harriet thing. She’s gonna make my life miserable.”

“Only if you let her.”

“She’s sending me to Idaho, for chrissake.”

“What have you got against Idaho?”

“Not a damn thing. Nor do I have anything against the vision-impaired. Or hot-air balloonists. But it’s not my story. It’s not even my kind of story. So forgive me if I’m finding it a little hard to work up any enthusiasm for it.”

“Think you could work up some for a better story?”

Headly hadn’t asked that casually. There was substance behind the question. So, in spite of his dejection, Dawson felt a tingle of anticipation. Because Headly hadn’t been only his godfather and lifelong good friend, he’d also been his invaluable and unnamed source within the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Taking his silence for interest, Headly continued. “Savannah, Georgia, and its environs. Marine Captain Jeremy Wesson, a decorated war veteran, one tour in Iraq, two in Afghanistan. After returning from his last deployment, he retired from the corps, and, by all accounts, went off the rails.

“Fifteen months ago, give or take, he got tangled up in a messy affair with a married woman, one Darlene Strong. Husband Willard caught them, and it didn’t end well for the illicit lovers. Willard Strong goes on trial for murder the day after tomorrow. Chatham County Courthouse. You should be there to cover the trial.”

Dawson was already shaking his head.

“Why not?” Headly asked.

“Summertime in Savannah.”

“Look at your calendar. As of today, it’s September.”

“Still, no thank you. It’s hot down there. Humid. I’d rather go to Idaho. Besides, crime isn’t my specialty. And frankly, I’ve had enough of the military for a while. I don’t want to write about a dead Marine. I’ve been doing that for the past nine months.

“In fact, maybe Harriet’s assignment is a blessing in disguise. That feel-good story may be just the tonic I need. Something hopeful. Positive. Uplifting. No severed limbs, or blood-soaked fatigues, or flag-draped caskets involved.”

“I haven’t told you the hook.”

Sourly, Dawson asked, “What’s the hook?”

“Police obtained Wesson’s semen off Darlene’s clothing. This, of course, to help make the prosecutor’s case against the cuckolded husband, Willard.”