Chapter 3 - Shadows at 0200
In the military, two in the morning is known as the witching hour. It’s when circadian rhythms hit their deepest trough, when sentries fall asleep on post, and when perimeter defenses are tested by those who operate best in the dark.
I had been awake since 0145.
Years of counter-insurgency rotations had permanently rewired my nervous system. I slept in four-hour cycles, my brain tuned to the subtlest shifts in ambient frequency: the hum of an air conditioner shutting off, the chirp of a cricket outside the screen, or the unmistakable creak of floorboards in the second-floor hallway.
I lay motionless on the twin bed in my childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The room had been mostly stripped of my history. My high school track medals were gone; my mother’s handcrafted quilt had been replaced by a stiff polyester bedspread from a department store clearance rack. The only thing in the room that belonged to me was my olive-drab Pelican case, padlocked with heavy-duty brass tumblers and stowed beneath the desk.
At 0214 hours, the doorknob turned.
It was a slow, agonizingly cautious rotation. The brass clicked—a tiny, metallic snap that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who hadn't listened for tripwires in the Korengal Valley.
The door swung inward an inch at a time. The amber nightlight from the hallway cast a long, narrow shadow across the braided rug.
Marlene slid through the gap.
She was wearing a silk robe, her bare feet whispering against the pine floor. In her right hand, she held an iPhone with the flashlight app turned on, its beam narrowed by her thumb. She wasn't looking at the bed. Her eyes were locked onto my military duffel bag leaning against the closet door, and the Pelican case beside it.
I didn't move. I kept my breathing slow, shallow, and rhythmic, mimicking the cadence of deep REM sleep.
She approached the desk like a seasoned looter. She set her phone on the edge of the wood, the beam illuminating my dark green service binder—the one containing my travel vouchers, TDY orders, and personal records. She reached out, her long acrylic nails scratching against the plastic sleeve.
"Looking for my tax returns, Marlene?"
My voice sliced through the silence like a gunshot.
Marlene shrieked, jumping backward so violently that her hip collided with the corner of the heavy oak desk. Her phone slipped from her fingers, clattering across the floorboards and shining upward, illuminating her face in grotesque, pale relief. Her eyes were wide with terror, her chest heaving beneath her robe.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. I didn't rush. I simply stood at my full height in the dim light, wearing black sweatpants and an olive Army PT shirt, watching her.
"What are you doing?" she gasped, clutching her bruised hip, trying to recover her composure through pure indignation. "You scared the life out of me! Jesus Christ, Claire, are you insane?"
"You're in my room at two in the morning," I said, my voice deadpan. "You have your hand on my official service records. Explain yourself."
"I was... I was looking for the spare Wi-Fi router password," she stammered, her gaze darting toward the open door. "The internet went down downstairs. I thought Arthur might have written it down on that notepad on your desk."
"The router password is taped to the side of the modem in the laundry room," I replied smoothly. "And you weren't looking at the notepad. You were opening my personnel jacket."
Marlene’s face hardened. Cornered animals always do one of two things: they run, or they bare their teeth. Marlene didn't have anywhere to run.
"So what if I was?" she hissed, dropping her voice to an ugly, venomous whisper. "You come into this house acting like a general inspecting the troops. You treat your father like dirt, you insult my daughter, and you hoard your bloody government money while we’re drowning!"
"Drowning?" I tilted my head. "My father was debt-free when my mother died. He owned this house outright. He had four hundred thousand dollars in his state pension rollover. Where did the money go, Marlene?"
Her eyes flared. "Life is expensive! Maintaining a household costs money! Keeping your father alive and happy costs money! You think you can just disappear for five years, let someone else do the emotional heavy lifting, and then come back and audit the books?"
She stepped closer, pointing a shaking finger directly at my face.
"Arthur gave me power of attorney three years ago," she whispered triumphantly, a sick little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Do you hear me? Legal power of attorney. This house is half mine. His pension is under my management. And if you think you can sit on your fat military trust fund while Tiffany drives a ten-year-old Honda and I clip coupons, you’ve got another thing coming. I know people at the Veterans Affairs office. I know people in the county clerk’s department. I will drag your pristine military record through the dirt until you pay what you owe this family."
I didn't blink. I didn't raise my voice. I took one step forward, closing the distance between us until she had to tilt her head back to maintain her glare.
"A power of attorney granted by a vulnerable, clinically depressed widower can be challenged in probate court within forty-eight hours," I said, each word landing like an artillery shell. "And attempting to access a Department of Defense officer’s encrypted financial records using a stolen Social Security number isn't a family dispute, Marlene. It’s a federal felony under 18 U.S. Code Section 1028."
Marlene’s breath caught in her throat. The smugness flickered in her eyes, replaced by a sudden, cold panic.
"Get out of my room," I said. "Before I call the United States Army Criminal Investigation Division and have a badge standing on that front porch by sunrise."
She didn't say another word. She scooped her phone off the floor, gathered the folds of her silk robe around her waist, and practically sprinted down the hallway, her bedroom door clicking shut behind her a second later.
I stood in the darkness, listening to the house settle. My heart wasn't racing. My hands weren't shaking.
May you like
I walked over to the desk, unlocked the brass padlock on the Pelican case, and pulled out my encrypted satellite phone. It was time to call an old friend.
***
