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but knew he had to. After receiving the taunting text from Headly, he’d packed his duffel bag. The following morning, rather than using the ticket to Idaho that had been foisted on him, he’d boarded a flight to Savannah.
    While waiting in the rental-car line, he’d called Harriet.
    “Are you already in Boise?”
    “I took a detour.”
    He envisioned her seated behind her desk, smoke coming out her ears. “I assigned you a story, Dawson.”
    “I’ve got a better one.”
    “What is it?”
    “For now, it’s a secret.”
    “ Where is it?”
    “I’m hot on its trail.”
    “Dammit, Dawson!”
    “I’ll be in touch.” And he clicked off before the people around him could hear the obscene invectives being shouted through his phone.
    For the time being, he was covering his own expenses, so he’d booked a room in a midpriced downtown hotel. After taking a cold shower, he’d raided the minibar, turned on ESPN, and settled down on the bed with a room-service cheeseburger and his laptop.
    He’d searched out websites that contained material pertaining to the crime for which Willard Strong was being tried. On every level, it was a disturbing case, and by the time Dawson had finished researching it, he’d developed a tightness in his chest that he wanted to attribute to the Tabasco with which he’d doused his cheeseburger. But he knew that wasn’t the cause of the constriction.
    He asked himself for the hundredth time why he’d let Headly rope him into becoming involved. But when he had stripped away all the plausible explanations for his capitulation, the truth stood alone, and it had nothing to do with Headly, but everything to do with himself.
    Truth be known, he’d practically dared himself to come, as a kind of therapy.
    Since his return from Afghanistan, he’d been unable to shake off the effects of spending almost a year in a war zone. They clung to him like a spiderweb, so fine as to be invisible, yet as tenacious as steel and, so far, impossible to escape.
    Of course he was nowhere near as gone as Jeremy Wesson had been. No doubt the captain had suffered from the real thing, PTSD. It had cost him his family and ultimately his life, making him an ideal subject for a timely and relevant article, one certain to induce strong emotions in the reader.
    But it was also the subject Dawson wished most to avoid. It cut too close to home.
    And then there was the other element that made this story personally involving. Had Jeremy Wesson been Carl Wingert and Flora Stimel’s son? Were they or were they not dead? Dawson didn’t care. But Headly did, and he felt an obligation to his godfather to take the investigation at least one step further.
    So, he’d come. And looking at it from a strictly journalistic standpoint, Jeremy Wesson’s life was a treasure trove of material. How could he possibly pass up writing the provocative story of a man who’d entered the world as the offspring of fugitives from justice, had experienced a seemingly normal upbringing in the Midwest, had honorably served his country, had returned home from war emotionally and psychologically wrecked, and then had been violently murdered?
    It was an American version of a Greek tragedy.
    With that in mind on his first night in Savannah, he’d shut down his laptop, washed down a sleeping pill with a slug of Pepto-Bismol to neutralize the Tabasco, and gone to bed. Five minutes later, he got up and took another pill, swallowing it with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the minibar.
    He’d had the nightmare anyway. Twice.
    Consequently he was groggy and ill-tempered for the first day of Willard Strong’s trial. He’d arrived at the courthouse early—not to claim a front-row seat, but to secure one in the back row near the exit so he could make a speedy and unobtrusive getaway if he felt the need.
    As soon as court had adjourned that first day, he’d headed straight for River Street, where he spent the remainder of the evening cruising the bars.