Bones of the Lost(65)

Pete asked that I phone when stateside.

Nothing from Ryan.

I e-mailed Katy to let her know I’d gotten back to the world.

It was just past midnight when I finally touched down at the Albert J. Ellis Airport in Jacksonville. A sergeant in fatigues approached as I was off-loading my belongings from the carousel. Stout, middle-aged, but looking like he could lift a Toyota.

“Master Sergeant Earl Rigg, ma’am. I’m your ride to Lejeune.” Rigg heaved my duffel onto his shoulder. “Follow me.”

We drove north on Route 258, lights strobing the windshield. Rigg wasn’t a talker. Or maybe he sensed my exhaustion.

I stared out the window, barely taking in the passing tableau. A pawnshop awning saying WE BUY DRESS BLUES. Endless fast-food joints. Wilson Bay, the water an endless black mirror.

After some time, we pulled up to an imposing brick wall with signage stating CAMP LEJEUNE, HOME OF EXPEDITIONARY FORCES IN READINESS.

Rigg spoke when we’d cleared security.

“Looks like you could use some shut-eye.”

“It’s that obvious?” I smiled. I think.

“Yes, ma’am.”

As Rigg drove across the base, I cracked the window and inhaled the warm night air. The smell of fresh-cut grass, pine, and red cedar made me realize how glad I was to be back in North Carolina.

The Lejeune Inn, built to provide temporary housing, was brick and strictly utilitarian. The Boxy and Plain School of architecture.

“Get yourself sorted with the front desk,” said Rigg. “I’ll bring your gear.”

I drew a first-floor room. Rigg appeared as I was unlocking the door.

“Have a good night, ma’am.” A curt nod, and he was gone.

I looked around.

A kitchenette. A table and two chairs. Built-in drawers and shelves, one holding a TV. Two double beds.

An electric alarm on a stand between the beds said 12:47. In the quiet, I could hear it humming softly.

After minimal toilette, I stripped down and crawled under the sheets. Sleep claimed me as soon as my head touched the pillow.

I awoke to the shrill of a phone.

“Mm.”

“Sergeant Rigg, ma’am. Major Hawthorn would like to meet with you at ten hundred hours.”

I glanced at the clock. 9:24.

“I’ll be in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

Quick shower, shampoo, teeth. A dab of blusher, one ghastly instant coffee, and I was out the door.

Rigg was waiting. He nodded, then turned quickly. I think he felt awkward, not being able to salute.

The morning was warm but overcast. Dozens of birds stood sentry on power lines and in overhead branches.

As we drove along the beach, I noticed a Marine unit doing nautical maneuvers, six-person crews humping Zodiacs into the surf. I could hear the drill sergeant barking orders over the sound of the waves.

The Legal Services and JAG office was located a short distance up Holcomb Boulevard. Rigg dropped me at the front door.

“Ask for Major Joe Hawthorn.”

The receptionist had long legs, smooth skin, and amber hair piled high. Her drawl was thicker than Gran’s cheese grits.

“Temperance Brennan for Joe Hawthorn,” I said.

“I am so sorry.” As though personally aggrieved. “Major Hawthorn’s running a smidge late. Would you care to wait in his office?”

Smidge?

“That would be fine.”

“Please come with me.”

Smiling, she rose and turned right down a narrow hall, stilettos clicking on the shiny gray tile. We entered a door with a plaque bearing Hawthorn’s name and rank.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea? Perhaps a soda?”

“Coffee, please.”

The office triggered a flash image of Mrs. Flowers. The blotter was positioned perfectly parallel to the edge of the desk. Everything on it was arranged with exactitude. A yellow tablet. A letter opener. Three pens equidistant from each other, nibs perfectly aligned.

A framed photo showcased a blandly handsome man, his blandly pretty wife, and two well-groomed boys. I was imagining names when Ms. Southern Apple Pie returned and handed me a napkin and a steaming Styrofoam cup. Hawthorn entered as she was leaving.

“I apologize for my tardiness.”

Hawthorn’s appearance mimicked the state of his office. Shoes gleaming, uniform pressed and sharply creased, mustache squarely edged, hair parted with laser precision.

I rose. We shook hands. Hawthorn’s palm was dry, his nails and cuticles perfectly manicured.

“Thank you for coming. I know you must be tired.”

“I’ll catch a nap later.”

“Please sit.” Gesturing to the spot I’d just vacated.

I sat. Hawthorn moved to the chair behind his desk.

“As you know, the Article 32 hearing will resume tomorrow.” Hawthorn tented his fingers and rested his chin atop them. “Do you know what an Article 32 is?”