Chapter 3

Deborah led them to a small chapel on the edge of the base, a plain building with sandbags against the door and a cross above the altar. The storm had thickened. Gravel pinged the roof. Angela stood by the door with her arms crossed, giving them space but not privacy. The canteen in its evidence bag sat on the front pew.

Deborah pulled a folded envelope from her purse. The paper was soft from years of handling. Eli’s name was on it in Dustin’s blocky handwriting. Below that: For Kyle, when he’s old enough.

“I gave him the canteen,” Eli said. “He was supposed to get this too.”

“I know.” Deborah sat heavily. “I was going to give it to him when he turned eighteen. Then he enlisted. I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Dustin didn’t want him to.” She looked at Eli. “You knew that.”

Eli sat beside her. The truth was a room they had both avoided for twelve years. “Dustin told me he signed for the patrol because he wanted to keep his squad together. I told him I’d go in his place. He said no. He said I had a mother and he had a kid brother who needed to see him come home.”

Deborah’s face crumpled. “He never came home.”

“I carried him,” Eli said. “I carried him to the evac bird. He gave me the canteen. He said, ‘Don’t let Kyle hate you. Tell him I chose it.’” Eli’s voice cracked. “Then he died.”

Deborah pressed the letter into his hands. “I asked you to stay away. I asked you to be silent. I thought I was protecting Kyle.”

“You were his mother.”

“I was a coward.”

The chapel door banged open. Kyle stood in the doorway, dust swirling around him. His eyes went to the letter in Eli’s hands, then to his mother’s face. “What is that?”

Deborah stood. “Kyle.”

“Is that from Dustin?”

“Yes.”

“And you gave it to him?” Kyle’s voice broke. “You gave my brother’s last letter to the man who left him?”

“I didn’t leave him,” Eli said.

“Shut up.” Kyle crossed the room and grabbed for the letter. Deborah caught his arm.

“Stop.”

He pulled away. “You’ve been lying to me my whole life. Both of you.” He looked at the canteen on the pew. “That’s mine.”

Angela stepped forward. “That’s evidence.”

Kyle picked it up anyway. “Then arrest me.”

He walked out into the storm. The door slammed. Deborah sank onto the pew, the letter still in Eli’s hand.

“Go after him,” she said.

“I can’t make him listen.”

“Then make him see.”

Eli found Kyle at the incinerator yard behind the motor pool, a fenced square of concrete and rusted drums. The storm had turned the sky the color of old pennies. Kyle stood with the canteen in both hands, staring at the open hatch of the incinerator. Heat shimmered from the grate.

“Don’t,” Eli said.

Kyle didn’t turn. “He left me nothing. No goodbye. No explanation. Just you.”

“He left you that canteen.”

“It’s a piece of junk.”

“Open the lining.”

Kyle finally looked at him. “What?”

“The lining. He sewed something inside.”

Kyle’s face twisted. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I never read it. I promised.”

“You promised my mother. Big deal.”

Eli took a step closer. The wind pushed ash across the concrete. “I promised Dustin I would give it to you when you were old enough to hear it. You’re a soldier now. You’re old enough.”

Kyle laughed, but it was wet. “You think a note makes up for twelve years?”

“No. But burning it won’t either.”

Kyle looked at the canteen. His thumb found the three dents. Tap. Tap. Tap. Dustin used to do that before every hard conversation. Kyle’s hand shook. He ripped at the inner lining with his fingers. The old stitching tore. A strip of oilcloth slipped out and fluttered into a puddle of oily water near the incinerator runoff.

“No,” Eli said.

They both lunged. Kyle got there first, but he slipped. Eli caught him by the collar, twisted his bad back, and went down hard. The oilcloth floated, ink bleeding at the edges. Angela’s voice cut through the wind.

“Hands where I can see them!”

She was running from the gate, radio in one hand, other hand raised. Kyle scrambled back. Eli lay on the wet concrete, oilcloth in his fist, water soaking the words. He could already see some letters vanishing.

“Don’t touch it,” Angela said. She knelt, took the oilcloth with gloved fingers, and held it up. “This is Dustin’s writing.”

Kyle stared. “What does it say?”

Angela’s eyes moved over the faded lines. Her breath caught. “It’s the code.”

“What code?”

“The one you two used as kids.” She looked at Kyle. “The tap code. He wrote it in your cipher.”

Kyle’s face went slack. Eli tried to stand and failed. His back had gone from pain to lightning. Angela caught his arm.

“You’re done being silent,” she said. “Both of you.”