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They could shoot him dead on the spot, lying there on the ground, hands behind his head. Part of him wished they would. Most of him wished it.
They were US Army. A sergeant and a private, based on the uniform markings. Both heavily armed.
As he’d been before they’d stripped him of his guns and ammo and the blade in his boot. His US-issued boot, with holes in the sole, worn with his pale gray kuchi dress and loose pants.
No one from the United States was going to believe he was still on their side. Most days he questioned it himself.
The string of curse words that followed sounded unbelievably good to him—issued as they were in his native tongue. Even the word traitor attached at the end of it made him want to weep with relief. It had been so long since he’d heard American English.
He wasn’t a traitor. Hadn’t betrayed his country’s secrets. But he’d done what he’d done. There was no undoing it. And no way to live with it, either.
He just wanted it over. Was ready to die, just like his heart and soul had already done. Winston Hannigan, married naval officer with a future at home, had been buried in the Afghan desert ages ago.
Hungry, thirsty, tired, Winston didn’t argue when he was hauled up roughly, his shoulders half coming out of his sockets. Didn’t care at all that the servicemen restrained him and threw him in the back of their off-road vehicle. He’d been on the road for three days with a goal that could go one of two ways: he’d get out of the desert or die in it.
The way he figured, that Jeep, the excruciating jars as it bumped along at top speeds, was helping him reach his goal. Maybe both ways.
* * *
The actual insemination wasn’t painful. In a room with mood-enhancing new age music playing and the lighting low, other than the small bright light positioned for the doctor, and the lavender candle she’d brought burning not too far away, it was all over while she was still mentally preparing for the ordeal. She tried to doze while waiting the appropriate time before she could get up and go home. Thought about what she’d have for dinner—some kind of treat to celebrate.
Couldn’t land on anything.
Wasn’t happy about that.
She did a lot of math in her head. Financial reports, estimating amounts of money needed per year to raise a child, adding in incidentals for vacations and the unforeseen, college account deposits and even possible competition fees if he or she was into sports or dancing.
She counted months. If the insemination took, she’d have a March baby. Counted days, fourteen of them, until she would know if the process was successful. She could take a home pregnancy test earlier than that, but according to Dr. Miller false positives were fairly common any earlier due to low hormonal counts.
Salad ended up being dinner—she didn’t have much of an appetite. And she didn’t call anyone. Her mother, a widow living with Emily’s divorced brother in San Diego, helping him raise his two kids, would insist on driving up. And her friends... Most of them had either moved away or faded off. She didn’t go out anymore, not since Winston went missing. Most of the people she used to spend time with were other couple friends with families of their own now, leaving her the odd one out—and she worked eighty hours a week and didn’t relish spending even more time with the people there.
Another math problem to work through. Getting as much work done in fewer hours. She couldn’t spend eighty hours in the office every week once a baby came. Child care funds had already been calculated. Multiple times. There was a day care in an office building not far from hers. The Bouncing Ball’s LA branch. Mallory Harris, the owner, was a client at the clinic—and expecting a baby of her own around Christmastime. Christine Elliott had introduced them.
If all went well, they’d be pregnant at the same time. Pregnant. She could be. Winston’s baby could already be forming inside her.
Math. Numbers. Focus.
Wednesday, June 12. Insemination day.
Conception Day?
Two years, four months and three days since she’d seen the father.
Hugging Winston’s pillow, Emily cried herself to sleep that night.
* * *
“I did things.”
Sitting on a worn blue couch, elbows on his khaki-covered knees, hands steepled at the fingers, Winston tried to help the naval therapist understand. Though he’d been back in the States for more than a week, in San Diego for three days, he didn’t feel any different than he had bumping around helplessly in the back of a military Jeep in the Afghan desert. He’d murdered his soul there. Nothing was going to change that.
“You’re a hero to your country.” The woman’s soft tones bounced off his eardrums like the buzz of an irritating fly. “What you did saved lives. And what you’ve brought back to us will save even more.”
He didn’t need to be told the facts. He knew them. Was wearing the ribbons he’d earned above his right pocket. He’d put country and his fellow comrades before soul. Had made very clear decisions—for very clear reasons. He’d come up with the plan on his own. Had implemented it without telling anyone, knowing that if he’d spoken up, he’d have been told not to act.
His plan had succeeded. Beyond his expectations. He hadn’t counted on surviving.
“My wife believes I’m dead. I wish to leave it that way.” An unusual request, but not impossible. He was informing on a terrorist cell. He could request a new identity. Keep anyone who knew him by his former identity out of it.
