One September Morning Read Online Free PDF Page A

Gunnar McGee is too much of a pansy, which leaves Lassiter, who was obviously jealous of John’s popularity. It could have been Lassiter, but Emjay would have trouble buying that, given Lassiter’s lack of follow-through. The guy is a big talker, but Emjay suspects he’s all talk.
    So who else was in that dark warehouse? Who hated John that much?
    Emjay removes his helmet and sits down on the edge of his cot. There will be no sleep for tonight. No rest. No escape.
    “Just a tip, Brown,” Doc says, one blue eye squinting in half a wink. “You can lose the shades at night. Especially in this pit.”
    Emjay stows his helmet and flak jacket but makes no move to remove his sunglasses. “Didn’t you know?” he says as he leans back on his bunk, hands crossed over his chest like a corpse. “I’m legally blind.”
    Doc and the guys chuckle for a moment, but their attention quickly shifts to the poker game. Hilliard is munching through a can of macadamia nuts as Noah Stanton methodically laces his combat boots.
    Through the dark shield of his shades, Emjay watches them all. It’s a damn shame the sunglasses can’t cover everything, can’t hide the shaking of his hands or the sour pucker of lips on the verge of sobbing. If only he could be alone, walk into the cocoon of nightfall, the dark wrapping around him like a forgiving blanket. You never get to be alone in the army. In that way, it’s like a prison.
    He misses the privacy of home, the freedom to fly out the door and walk the farm, any time of the day or night, without getting his ass shot at. Sometimes he walked to the back acres of the farm, past the chicken coops, the thicket and the pond, night opening to him like a dark blossom. Walking to get away from his old man, to escape the arguments, the drunken fits, the smell of the stale beer and chicken shit and malice. Truth was, nobody enjoyed culling dead chicks or sucking in the ammonia smell, so acidic in the chicken houses it burned right through your sinuses into your brain. Emjay signed up to get away from that chicken farm on the Maryland shore, and damned if he didn’t trade one hell for another. Only, this new nightmare was bigger and more twisted than anything he could have imagined.
    Without turning his head, Emjay can see Noah Stanton pulling on his boots. He doesn’t bother to lace them, but strides out of the bungalow without his helmet or flak jacket or rifle, defying regulations.
    “What the hell’s he doing?” Lassiter asks, scowling toward the slamming door.
    “Living dangerously,” Gunnar agrees, “but, really, what are the chances? Taking down two brothers in one day? Odds are against it, I’d say.”
    “Sometimes grief will make a person act recklessly.” Doc picks up his helmet and removes the gold medal he keeps tucked into the camouflage mesh for good luck. It’s a replica of a Purple Heart he got in Afghanistan, and Doc’s so proud of it he wears it like a fishing hook in his hat, even when they go out on missions. Doc’s sort of a dick that way. “And I have to say, I get it. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Goddamned sniper. Goddamn them all.”
    Emjay’s mouth goes dry as silence pervades the room. Usually he resents Doc’s declarations of pop psychology—the nuggets of mental health tips Doc tosses off each day in his role as what the army calls field counselor, which they all know means head shrinker. But this time Doc seems sincere, and rightly so. Before he was Dr. Charles Jump, Doc played football with John back in college. This had to cut deep, even for a cat like Doc. They were old friends, but then John was a friend to everyone. He was that kind of guy.
    Doc goes to a calendar on the wall, grimaces at the breathtaking photo of a huge potato-head rock in the surf, and marks off a square with a felt pen. “One more down,” he says, and for a moment Emjay thinks he’s referring to a man down instead of a day to mark off on the calendar.
    “You gonna take on