Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“So?” I prodded. “Not your friends. Speak.”

“They, uhm—these are guys from my old unit before I went into Special Forces.”

“When you were a Ranger?”

“I’m still a Ranger,” he corrected me. “My military occupational specialty is scout and I’m a Ranger on top of that, but I’m in a Green Beret unit now.”

“Okay.”

“I asked to be transferred, and then I was assigned to the one I’m with now.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Before I met you, so—” He was thinking. “—four years ago.”

I was surprised. “You haven’t seen these people since before you were a marshal?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then how did you even hear that Eddie died?”

“I got an e-mail from Eddie’s wife’s sister.”

The fuck was going on? “Start from the beginning and tell me why you left the unit.”

His head shake was so slight I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking closely.

“Talk to me.”

He made a noise of disgust. “I’m not proud of it, and they’re not either. I wouldn’t even go, but—Eddie… he’s the one who insisted they go back, even though he didn’t want to.”

“Go back?”

“For me,” he sighed. “Yeah.”

“Where did they leave you?”

“In Musa Qal’ah.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“It’s in Afghanistan, in the Helmand Province.”

I twisted in the seat, angling my body so I could see his face. “Look at me.”

He turned his head.

“Explain from the beginning.”

“I can’t right now,” he said, indicating the driver with a tip of his head. “But I will.”

“I really need you to.”

All I got was another nod of agreement.

AT THE church we took our seats toward the back, and since we were the only ones in the row, we didn’t end up speaking to anyone. There weren’t a lot of people there, which made the space—even though beautiful inside—seem cavernous and cold. I was betting normal Mass on any given Sunday was a much warmer affair.

After the service we waited as the pallbearers carried the coffin outside to the hearse before following the other mourners. On the steps both of us shook hands with the priest, and then Ian was faced with his fallen comrade’s wife. Whatever he was expecting, from the stricken look on his face when she lunged at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tight wasn’t it.

“Ohmygod, Ian, you came!” she wailed, crying all over him. “Sherri said she e-mailed you, but I wasn’t sure you would come.”

He was stiff; he didn’t enfold her like he did Aruna when he hugged her or even like the last girlfriend he had. He gave her a pat before he put his hands on her forearms and gently but firmly uncoiled her from him.

When she stepped back, another woman was there, in his space, hugging him.

“I knew you’d come. You were always better than all the rest of them.”

He didn’t have to peel the second woman off him. She moved back quickly and looked around him to me.

“This is my partner, Miro Jones. We’re both marshals,” he explained to the women, hand on my shoulder, drawing me forward. “M, this is Rose Laird, Eddie’s wife, and her sister, Sherri Arbolita.”

Each of them smiled for me as best they could with puffy red eyes. I shook both their hands, and then a woman introduced as Rose’s mother, Janice, appeared, happy to meet me and Ian and insistent that we follow them to the cemetery and on to the house.

Ian cleared his throat as soon as she walked away, heading toward the limousine that would follow first behind the hearse. “I don’t think so, huh, Rosie,” he said gently, his hand on the small of my back. “I just wanted to pay my respects to Eddie, but they don’t want me here, and I don’t wanna make a scene.”

He glanced toward the hearse as he spoke, and when I turned, I saw ten men standing around, all in the same uniform as he was, down to the dress coats. The only noticeable difference was the color of the beret: Ian’s green, everybody else’s black.

“You know he talked about you all the time, Ian,” Rose said, stepping in close, taking his hand. “And he was so sorry that he hadn’t done more.”

“It was a long time ago,” he assured her, slipping his hand up over my shoulder. “And I wasn’t blameless. I fucked up bad.”

“Yes, but it was a personal thing that they made business—or what that amounted to,” she said with a catch in her voice, glancing at me. “At least that’s what Eddie told me.”

“Yeah, well—” Ian took a breath. “—still. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“But—”

“I just wanted to say good-bye to Eddie and tell you how sorry I am.”

Her eyes welled up with tears.

“Listen,” Sherri began, taking hold of Ian’s bicep. “Rose really wants you to—”

“Doyle.”

We turned to see a man standing there, one step down, smoking a cigarette and looking up at him. He was tall—six three, I was guessing—all muscle, no neck, with a blond buzz-cut and small dishwater-blue eyes. I could only imagine how many times a nose had to be broken to have that many bumps.