Then back at me.
“Bell said something about the old man not remembering.”
“Me?”
“What else?”
“He said, ‘Delaney will lead us to Kincaid.’”
My blood chilled.
“Us?”
Tyler nodded.
“There was someone else.”
“Who?”
“I couldn't see.”
“Man? Woman?”
“Man.”
“Age?”
“Older.”
“What happened to Beck?”
Tyler closed his eyes.
“Bell struck him.”
“With what?”
“You watched?”
“I panicked.”
“You left him?”
His face twisted.
For all my anger, I saw what it cost him to say it.
Not enough.
But something.
“You could have saved him.”
“You could have called police.”
“You did nothing.”
He whispered, “I know.”
“So why tell me now?”
Tyler stared at his hands.
“Because I spent my whole life believing my father was a hero.”
He laughed once, bitterly.
“He told me guys like you were the problem. Veterans who exaggerated injuries. Men who broke rules then hid behind medals.”
His eyes became wet.
“And then I found his files.”
“Your father was Sandglass?”
“Did you know?”
“Not until recently.”
“Then why protect him?”
“Because if he was a criminal, what did that make everything I believed about myself?”
I understood more than I wanted to.
Children build identities from parents.
Sometimes even grown children keep defending a foundation after discovering it was rotten.
Tyler looked at me.
“I don't expect forgiveness.”
“I just don't want Beck to disappear because I was a coward.”
For the first time, I believed him.
Not trusted.
Believed.
There is a difference.
He gave investigators everything.
Storage location.
Times.
Vehicle descriptions.
A partial plate.
And one sentence he'd overheard from the unseen man.
“Hank never knew who was really on that radio.”
I didn't sleep that night.
Because suddenly I understood.
Bell wasn't Sandglass Actual.
The tape had tricked us.
We recognized Bell because his voice resembled the recording.
But the recording was thirty-five years old.
Bell would have been a child.
Sandglass Actual couldn't have been him.
It had been his father.
Warren Pike.
So who was the second man telling Bell that I never knew the truth?
Someone old enough to remember Red Lantern.
Someone still alive.
Someone close enough to know exactly what I remembered.
I thought of Kincaid.
Then hated myself for it.
But suspicion is a disease.
Once inside you, it feeds on every unanswered question.
Three nights later, Kincaid came to my house.
No suit.
No blood.
Just an old Marine carrying two beers.
“I don't drink much anymore,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
We sat on the back porch.
Arizona sunset burned orange across the sky.
For a long time, we watched it.
Then I asked, “Who was the other man?”
Kincaid didn't pretend not to understand.
“Bell said I would lead him to you.”
“Because I have something they need.”
“The original Red Lantern mission log.”
I nearly dropped the bottle.
“You told me it was destroyed.”
“I lied.”
“For thirty-five years?”
“To keep you alive.”
“Stop saying that like it excuses things.”
“It doesn't.”
“Where is it?”
“Safe.”
“What's in it?”
“Names.”
“Whose?”
“All of them.”
“Then release it.”
“I can't.”
“Because it also contains names of intelligence sources, Afghan families, interpreters.”
“Most of them could be dead.”
“Some aren't.”
“People already died for this.”
“Tom died.”
“Release it.”
Kincaid looked exhausted.
“I need twenty-four hours.”
“No more secrets.”
“I need to redact innocent names.”
“You've had thirty-five years.”
His eyes met mine.
“I also need to know whether you're going to forgive me.”
That caught me off guard.
His voice lowered.
“The second order wasn't the worst thing I did.”
“What did you do?”
He looked toward the desert.
“When you refused to move, Pike ordered me to arrest you.”
I said nothing.
“I refused.”
“I know that.”
He shook his head.
“You don't.”
He took a breath.
“Pike then ordered another unit to detain you.”
“They were coming.”
“I never saw them.”
“Because I diverted them.”
“I reported enemy movement east.”
“There wasn't enemy movement east.”
“You falsified a contact report.”
“That could've gotten people killed.”
“To keep them away from you.”
“My God, Bob.”
“You saved twelve civilians and two Marines that night.”
“That doesn't make what you did right.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you would have reported me.”
He smiled faintly.
“And you should have.”
The truth hurt because he was right.
Young Hank Delaney believed rules mattered until they collided with conscience.
Then he believed conscience mattered more.
Kincaid had done exactly what I had done.
Broken orders to protect someone.
Only his choice had been for me.
I sat again.
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four.”
He left at 8:17 p.m.
At 8:42, Dana Wallace called.
“Hank, where's Kincaid?”
“His house was searched.”
“Within the last hour.”
“He just left here.”
“Where was he going?”
“Call him.”
No answer.
Then a text arrived.
Not from Kincaid.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
Kincaid seated in a chair.
Hands bound.
Blood on his forehead.
Below it:
BRING THE RED LANTERN LOG.
Wallace said, “Hank?”
I couldn't speak.
Another text arrived.
YOU KNOW WHERE HE HID IT.
I whispered, “No, I don't.”
Then the third message.
ASK YOUR WIFE.
The world stopped.
My wife had been dead six years.
I read the sentence again.
Wallace heard me breathing.
“What did they send?”
I told her.
She asked where Ellen's personal effects were stored.
My eyes moved toward her urn.
Then our wedding picture.
Then a wooden sewing box she had kept for forty years.
After she died, I barely touched it.
It hurt too much.
I opened it.
Thread.
Buttons.
Needles.