Page 39 of Point of Contact

The velvet bag gave a quiet clink as he reached for the last remaining item, and Trevor lost the battle with his emotions as he withdrew Riley’s dog tags, remembering the last time he’d touched them, how warm they’d felt after resting next to Riley’s skin.

“I never knew your blood type was B positive.” Trevor stared down at the dog tags in his palm before closing his fingers around them to give them a gentle tug, laughing when Riley made a pretend choking sound as the chain tightened around his neck. Trevor let go of the tags, allowing them to fall back against Riley’s chest before pressing his hand over them, feeling the strength of his son’s beating heart. “You look like a real soldier wearing these.”

Riley grinned at him, young, healthy and glowing with vitality. “I feel like one,” he said, bringing his hand up to lightly cover Trevor’s. “Hey. I know you’re worried about this deployment, Dad, but I’m well-trained, armed to the teeth, and I’ve got my best friends in the world by my side. It’s going to be all right.”

Trevor gripped the tags, feeling the edges cutting into his palm. They weren’t warm anymore, like they’d been that day, but cold and lifeless...just like Riley. Just like his son in the next room, his precious only son lying in a casket at twenty years old, never to laugh again, or tease, or love—

He brought his clenched fist to his mouth, doing his best to hold back the sobs. He’d managed it, just barely, when the door to the conference room opened, and Carl leaned in.

“Wanted to let you know I’m here now, honey,” he said quietly. “If you need me, I won’t be far away.”

Trevor gave him a jerky nod, waiting until he closed the door again before picking up the velvet bag, intending to put all Riley’s things back. As he did, he heard a slight crackle in the bottom of it. There was more? He dug around, at last pulling out a small envelope he hadn’t noticed before, the flap folded in on itself but not sealed. Scrawled in the address field was a handwritten date, 5/23/08, and the notation: PFC Estes. Found inside helmet.

Trevor opened the envelope, gasping as he pulled out a slightly crumpled picture of he and Riley on the Fort Carson parade field, arms around each other, smiles bright. He’d forgotten all about this, about the base photographer going around the field that day taking pictures of each family so they’d have a goodbye keepsake. It must have been emailed to Riley, and he’d printed it out somewhere and stuck the picture in his helmet. Why? So Trevor would be the last thing he saw when he went out on patrol?

It didn’t matter why. As Trevor gazed on Riley’s smiling face, and his own, it hit him, that this was the only memory he wanted imprinted on his mind and heart. Not of Riley’s shell, lying cold and lifeless in a box, but of Riley himself, tall and lean, a grown man, standing by Trevor’s side, preparing to go serve his country with honor and distinction.

Trevor carefully slipped all Riley’s personal effects inside the bag, a fragile sense of peace settling over him as this most agonizing, difficult decision was made at last.

Part Two—After

Chapter Twelve

January 2009—Eight months after

“Trevor, what—I thought we agreed this wasn’t a good idea.”

Trevor shut the front door, clutching the manila envelope he’d just signed for close to his chest. “I have to. I need to know how my child died.”

Carl came over to Trevor and took him by the shoulders. “You know how he died. Julian went over the after-action report with you paragraph by paragraph. I was there, remember?”

“Of course I remember. I’ll never forget,” Trevor snapped. “He wasn’t on patrol. He wasn’t in battle. He was sitting with his teammates, on his fucking base, and not one of them saw anything or heard it coming—” He broke off, the envelope crackling as his fingers tightened on it.

“Reading the excruciating details of the trauma his body went through isn’t going to change the outcome, so why, for God’s sake, would you put yourself through reading his autopsy report?” Carl reached for the envelope and tried to ease it away.

Trevor gripped it tighter. “Because I have to, Carl. I have to know.”

Carl gritted his teeth, giving Trevor a little shake. “No, you don’t have to. Just like you didn’t have to watch those YouTube videos from that embedded reporter that upset you so much.”

Trevor flinched, thinking of the jarring, chaotic combat footage shot by a photojournalist traveling with a platoon in the Korengal. It wasn’t Riley’s unit, but it was all Trevor could find, and he’d watched it over and over, the sights and sounds of battle, the faces of the young men fighting for their lives, seared into his brain. His voice rose. “That was my decision to make. Like not viewing him was. Like having him interred at Arlington was. These are all my fucking decisions I made regarding my son. If you can’t be supportive, then—” He bit off the words, wrenching out of Carl’s grip and turning away.

A beat of silence. “Then what, I can go to hell? Is that what you were going to say?”

Trevor shook his head mutely, unable to look at him.

“Because let me tell you something, Trevor. I’m already in hell.” Carl’s breathing was ragged. “I’m in hell watching you suffer. I’m in hell seeing you in so much pain, knowing there isn’t a fucking thing I can do to make it better. I’m in hell feeling so goddamn helpless—” He choked on a sob, burying his face in his hands.

Trevor wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but he couldn’t. All he could do was stand there and watch Carl struggle for control. At last Carl lifted his head. “It’s been eight months, Trevor. When are you going to stop this? When are you going to stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault? It’s like—it’s like you’re doing it deliberately, making little cuts that are never going to heal.”

Trevor didn’t answer, and at last Carl wiped his eyes on his pajama sleeve. “I’m going to get ready for work,” he said wearily.

“Carl—”

Carl brushed past without another word. Trevor let him go, trudging into the kitchen to make some coffee before sitting down to wait until Carl emerged, freshly showered and dressed in a tailored black suit. The silence was deafening as Carl pulled his khaki trench coat on, belting it with sharp, jerky motions.

“Carl, I—”

“We’ll talk when I get home, Trevor,” Carl interrupted, sounding tired and flat. “Okay?”