Turn or Burn by Boo Walker Page A

to the States on my way to plant the vineyard and wanted—needed—to see them, to tell them how much it hurt me, too. Now, I had both brothers’ blood on my hands.
    I’d spent many evenings at their parent’s home over the years. They were good, simple people and fantastic cooks. They’d always cater to my vegetarian lifestyle by tossing a rib eye on the grill for me, just in case I suddenly decided to up and change the way I’d been eating for two decades. They knew when to talk about the wars and when to leave them alone, and I liked that about them.
    They owned a few acres of stunning hillside property overlooking Elliott Bay back toward the mainland. We drove up the gravel driveway and stepped out of the car. Those islands get even more rain than Seattle and all the green, from the trees to the grass, showed it. I noticed Mrs. Simpson still tended to her garden on the side of the house. Llamas and horses were walking around in the neighbor’s yard.
    Ted’s father heard us and came out of his tool shed with a red-handled shovel in his hand. Ted had told me that his folks worked in the yard more than anything else these days. Before that, he was a Boeing guy. He started walking over to us.
    “What a surprise,” he said with excitement. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
    I didn’t say anything. As he got closer, he saw it in our eyes. It’s a look all parents of soldiers are always dreading. He’d already seen it once in his life.
    The shovel fell from his hands into the grass, and he dropped to his knees and began to weep.
    The fragility of life is nearly too much to bear sometimes.

II
    “The central problem of an intelligent species is the problem of sanity.”
     
    -Freeman J. Dyson

CHAPTER 14
    The cops finally released the names of the two women: Erica Conway and Lucy Reyes.
    Once we got back to the mainland, we got onto I-5 and headed toward the home of Ms. Conway’s parents. Her last-known address was not difficult to obtain. Francesca and I had built up a lifetime’s worth of contacts in the business. She put in a call and had the address in minutes. Lucy Reyes’s last-known was in Billings, Montana, so we thought the Conway’s house would be a good place to start.
    They lived in Tacoma, the city that shares an airport with Seattle and lies a little over thirty minutes south. A smaller version of Seattle, and a better or worse caricature, depending on who’s talking. We found their home in the middle of a cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood just outside of the city. Twenty or so cars lined the street with several more in the driveway. Obviously, their friends and loved ones were there, comforting them.
    No cop cars, which was good news. They’d probably already gone by. It had been several hours since the shooting. If Detective Jacobs was any good, he had to be way ahead of us by now. I did feel quite confident, however, that we’d beat him to the finish line, wherever that was. Incompetence runs thick through our justice system. That’s why I make my own justice.
    “I’ll go in and feel things out,” Francesca said. “I think this needs a woman’s touch.”
    “Suit yourself. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
    “Watch and learn, soldier.” She winked and closed the door. I watched her walk away, wondering how such a beautiful woman could be in this line of work. She seemed too innocent and too kind. Maybe that’s why she was good at it.
    I welcomed being alone for a little while. As I watched people come and go, I replayed the decisions and events leading up to Ted’s death and found so many ways that I could have saved him. Even up to the last minute. Bottom line: I should have seen the other shooter. Two good men’s deaths were on me now, and I was reminded once again that my life was cursed. Spend enough time with Harper Knox, get close enough, and die. My worth on this planet was negligible.
    Forcing the thoughts away, finding strength in vindictiveness, I