The disappearance of Dan Sherman was a prime example of that.
Grace had come to him shortly after her husband had disappeared. She was a strong woman. In his experience as a private detective, Roy had been hired by several women looking for answers regarding their husbands’ activities or whereabouts. Twice he’d been asked to track down errant spouses. In one case, he’d started the investigation on a missing husband and had only gotten a week into the search when his client told him to quit looking. She’d claimed that in retrospect she was better off without the bastard. She didn’t want to know where the hell he was. If he’d taken off with another woman, as she suspected, then the other woman was welcome to him.
From the little bit he’d learned about the missing husband, Roy figured his client had made a good choice.
It surprised him that Grace Sherman had contacted him again. Dan had been found, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and laid to rest. Roy assumed the case was closed. She had the answers she needed, but not necessarily the ones she wanted.
He heard the outside door open and glanced at the small clock on the corner of his desk. Twenty-five after twelve. A minute later Corrie, his wife and business manager, stepped into his office.
“Grace Sherman is here for her twelve-thirty appointment.”
She ushered Grace into the room. Corrie’s eyes met his, and she shrugged as though to say she was as much in the dark about this meeting as he was.
“Have a seat,” Roy said, gesturing to the upholstered chair across from his desk.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” Corrie asked.
Grace declined, and Corrie left, closing the door behind her.
“What can I do for you?” Roy began. He leaned back in his chair and waited.
Grace held her purse in her lap, her hands nervously gripping the clasp. “I came because I wasn’t sure where else to turn,” she said, gazing down at the floor. “It has to do with Dan.”
“Unfinished business?”
She nodded. “Before he—before he killed himself, he wrote me a letter. Sheriff Davis gave it to me.” She opened her purse. “The letter has some…information and I don’t know what to do with it.”
Roy didn’t remember hearing anything about a letter. “What kind of information?”
Grace reached inside her purse for the envelope and handed it across the desk to Roy. “No one else has read this. Not even my daughters.”
“What about Sheriff Davis?” Roy asked.
“I…I think he might’ve started reading it and then realized it was personal, and out of respect for Dan and me, he…” She paused, then shook her head. “I don’t know if he read it or not. I doubt it.”
Roy slid the letter out of the envelope. The writing in the first few lines was even and precise, as though Dan had carefully considered each word. Halfway down the second page the writing grew large, slanting downward. At the bottom, where Dan had signed his name, it was barely legible.
Roy turned back to the first page and began to read. Dan Sherman apologized to his wife for killing himself, and for the hell he’d put her through during their marriage.
Then Dan relayed the details of an incident that had happened in Vietnam when he’d walked into a village and killed a woman and her child. He’d mowed them down with bullets, murdered them out of instinctive fear. In the desperation of a young man willing to do anything to get out of the war alive, he’d killed innocents. Others had, too. How many had died in the village that day might never be known.
When he’d finished, Roy looked up and discovered Grace staring into the distance. She was pale but seemed composed.
“Dan was never the same after he came back from the war,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Now I know why.”
“It was a long time ago,” Roy said reassuringly. Regret tightened his chest. He’d been a nineteen-year-old kid when he’d arrived in Vietnam. Thankfully he’d never been faced with the kind of situation Dan Sherman had found himself in.
Dan hadn’t indicated the number of people killed, but it appeared to have been a free-for-all. “The shooting just never seemed to stop,” he’d written. He’d lived with that guilt all these years. Sometime back, Roy remembered reading that as many Vietnam vets had died by their own hand in the years that followed as were lost in the war. The causes were varied, although plainly it was guilt that had driven Dan to such drastic action.
“Was this incident ever reported?” he asked.
“Reported?” Grace repeated. “That I wouldn’t know, but I doubt it.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“That’s just it. I…I don’t know what should be done with this information.” She studied him, clearly hoping he’d offer a solution. He had none to give her.
“Should I hand the letter over to the army brass and let them deal with it?” she asked.
He didn’t respond, merely raising one shoulder in a shrug.
“Or should I give it to Sheriff Davis and leave it up to him?” Her voice rose in agitation. “Here’s an idea,” she cried. “Maybe I should put the letter away and pretend I never read it. Better yet, I should destroy it completely.”
Roy understood her dilemma, and didn’t envy her. “I can’t tell you what to do, Grace.”
“Dan didn’t want Maryellen or Kelly to know. They’ve just buried their father. That was hard enough without asking them to deal with this, too.”
Roy agreed, but unfortunately this was a decision Grace had to make on her own.
“It happened almost forty years ago. It was a horrible time in our country’s history. We sacrificed fifty thousand men…. No one wants to uncover another My Lai.” She shook her head. “He didn’t say how many others were involved.” Her voice was soft, and Roy had to strain to hear. “I want to know what’s happened to the other men in the patrol. How have they managed to live with what they did? Have their lives been a living hell, too?” Her voice throbbed with emotion. “Did they walk the floors at night the way my husband did? Have their souls been tormented?” Her eyes held his. “Tell me what to do, Roy. You’re the only one I can ask. You’re the only one I trust enough to point me in the right direction.”
Roy leaned toward her. He wished he could supply the answer, but he couldn’t. From the dark circles under her eyes, he knew she’d been tormented by the responsibility Dan had imposed on her.
“It’s as though he couldn’t deal with it any longer and he laid the problem at my feet.” Her words confirmed his own feeling about the situation.
“For weeks—ever since Dan was found—I couldn’t sleep. I thought it was because of…something else, and it was better for a while, but it’s begun again. The insomnia.”
So she was the one walking the floors now.
“I’ve always been an easygoing sort of person, but lately…lately I’ve been depressed.”
“Have you been to see a physician?” he asked.
“What am I supposed to tell a doctor? That my husband was a mass murderer who recently committed suicide? Oh, by the way, this murder happened thirty-six years ago and has the potential to tear our country apart all over again?”
Roy sighed. She had a point. “Like I said, Grace, I can’t advise you what to do.”
“What if I decide to destroy the letter? The only people who’ll ever know what it said are you and me.” She challenged him with a narrowed look.
“Then so be it.”
“That’s not what I came to hear.”
He heard the desperation in her voice, but there was nothing more he could say.
“I’m paying you to help me figure out what I should do.”
“Do you want me to track down the other men?” he asked.
Grace shrugged. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Dan never spoke about his war experiences and he never mentioned who those other men were.”
Suddenly Roy wasn’t so sure Grace did want the truth.
“I could find that out for you.” He had connections in the Department of Defense; it would be a simple matter of a phone call or two.
Grace hesitated, closing her eyes. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“All right.” Roy knew that Grace wanted an answer but not the one that would rip apart her own life—or those of others. He’d wait to hear from her.
The morning Katie turned six weeks old, Maryellen bathed her, the way she usually did. She watched joyfully as her daughter flung out her arms, splashing and cooing with unrestrained delight. Katie sent a spray of water toward her, hitting Maryellen in the face.
Katie smelled of baby lotion and shampoo as Maryellen dressed her in a soft pink sleeper. Six weeks ago, Maryellen’s entire life had changed. Her daughter had given her purpose and such profound joy, it was all she could do not to close her eyes and thank God for this precious gift.
The doorbell rang, and Maryellen held Katie against her shoulder as she walked through the living room to answer it. The leaves on the oak tree were turning deep autumn shades and had started to litter the front lawn.
To her surprise Jon stood there, looking self-conscious. His eyes immediately went to Katie and a slow smile crossed his face.
“I developed some new pictures,” he announced. “I realize this isn’t my day to have Katie, but I wanted you to see them.”
“Nonsense, you’re welcome anytime.” Maryellen had been overwhelmed by the number of pictures Jon had already taken of their daughter.
“To be honest, I was having withdrawal symptoms. I figured this was a good excuse to see my little girl.” He held out a large envelope. “Trade you?”
He knew how much she loved his photographs. “Deal,” she said, giving him Katie and taking the envelope. While Maryellen sat on one end of the sofa and examined these latest pictures, Jon cooed at his daughter. It was difficult to pay attention to the photographs, drawn as she was to the sight of Jon with Katie. Letting him drive away with their daughter twice a week hadn’t become any easier, but she could never doubt his love.
As she reviewed the pictures, one in particular caught her interest. It was taken the morning Maryellen had gone to his house. She’d sat in the rocking chair in Katie’s nursery, breastfeeding their daughter. Her back was to the window and light spilled in around her. The cheerfully painted wall blurred in the background and only Maryellen and Katie were clear and vivid. Somehow Jon had captured the tenderness and love Maryellen felt for her daughter. Her focus was entirely on Katie, her smile a private one, for their baby alone. It was a classic image of mother and child, reminding her of paintings by Botticelli and Rembrandt.
She recalled that he’d had his camera with him that morning. She’d clowned around for him and he’d snapped picture after picture, but she hadn’t expected anything like this.
“I see you found it,” he said, watching her as she studied the photograph.
“How do you do it?” she asked softly. “How do you know the precise moment to catch a woman’s heart?”