Chapter 3
For a moment, I could not speak.
The parking lot blurred.
Sheriff Porter stood in front of me, holding his hat against his chest.
Eli’s eyes were in his face.
Same brown.
Same stubborn light.
“I didn’t know you were his father,” I said.
He nodded.
“Eli talked about you in every letter.”
My throat tightened.
“He talked about you too.”
That was true.
Eli had told stories about his father after long patrols.
Sheriff in a small town.
Strict.
Fair.
Could smell a lie through a closed door.
I had pictured him a hundred times.
I never pictured meeting him beside a diner while Rex dripped ice water onto cracked asphalt.
Sheriff Porter looked at the deputies.
“Get every statement. Pull the video. Nobody leaves until I say.”
Butch laughed from beside the cruiser.
“Come on, Sheriff. You know us.”
The sheriff turned slowly.
“I do.”
Butch’s smile weakened.
“That why I’m not surprised.”
The deputies loaded the Vipers into cars.
Rex sat beside me, shivering now that the fight was over.
I wrapped the towel around him.
“You okay, buddy?”
He leaned his wet head against my thigh.
That almost undid me.
Sheriff Porter saw.
His voice softened.
“Come inside my office. I’ll have someone bring water and food.”
“I should keep moving.”
“No,” he said. “You shouldn’t.”
There are commands men give with rank.
And commands men give with grief.
This was the second kind.
I followed him.
The sheriff’s office was five minutes away.
Rex rode in the back seat of the SUV on a blanket Porter clearly kept for muddy evidence or lost children.
At the station, everyone stared when we walked in.
Not at me.
At Rex.
A deputy whispered, “That’s the dog?”
Porter heard.
“That is Petty Officer Rex.”
The deputy stood straighter.
Good.
They gave Rex a clean bowl of water and a plate of plain chicken from someone’s lunch.
He ate politely.
Even soaked and tired, Rex had manners.
I sat across from Porter in his office.
On the wall behind him were photographs.
One showed Eli at nineteen.
Another showed Eli in uniform.
Another showed Eli with me and Rex outside a plywood barracks, all three of us filthy and smiling like fools.
I stared at it.
“I didn’t know you had that.”
“Eli sent it two weeks before he died.”
The word landed heavy.
Died.
Not passed.
Not lost.
Died.
War does not deserve pretty language.
Porter opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope.
“I always hoped I’d meet you.”
Inside were letters.
Copies.
Eli’s handwriting.
Dad, Mercer is quiet but solid. Rex listens to him like they share one mind.
Dad, if I ever don’t make it back, find Mercer. Tell him it wasn’t his fault before he decides otherwise.
My chest locked.
Porter watched me read.
I tried to fold the letter.
My hands would not cooperate.
“It was my fault,” I whispered.
“No.”
“You weren’t there.”
“My son wrote that because he knew you’d carry it.”
I looked at the photo.
Eli smiling.
Rex sitting at his feet.
Me pretending I was not exhausted.
“Rex found him,” I said. “After the blast. I couldn’t see. Dust everywhere. Rex pulled me to him.”
Porter closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“I held him.”
“I know.”
“I told him you loved him.”
Porter’s face broke.
For one terrible, honest second, the sheriff disappeared and only the father remained.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
A knock came at the door.
Deputy Mills stepped in.
“We pulled the diner footage.”
Porter wiped his face once.
“And?”
“Butch started it. Clear as day. Dumped water on the dog, threatened the soldier, ordered the others to attack.”
“Charges?”
“Assault. Animal cruelty. Menacing. Weapons. But Sheriff…”
Porter’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
Mills hesitated.
“Butch is asking for his lawyer. Says he wants to file charges against Mr. Mercer for excessive force.”
I almost laughed.
Porter did not.
“He can ask.”
“There’s more,” Mills said. “The Vipers are gathering outside town.”
Porter stood.
“How many?”
“Looks like thirty bikes. Maybe more.”
Rex lifted his head.
I looked at Porter.
“You have a problem.”
May you like
Porter looked out the window toward the highway.
“No, Jack,” he said. “I think we both do.”
