Chapter 5 - The Grandson of the Man I Never ForgaveThe room fell silent after Colonel Hale's admission.
I looked at his face again.
Now I could see it.
The narrow nose.
The sharp cheekbones.
The carefully controlled expression.
Robert Mercer had worn that same expression when he ordered us to leave our wounded behind.
“You're his grandson,” I repeated.
Hale nodded.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And you didn't think that was worth mentioning?”
“I didn't believe it was relevant.”
Thomas gave him a hard look.
“Colonel, you're overseeing a historical review that includes allegations against your grandfather. That's an obvious conflict of interest.”
Hale straightened.
“I have not concealed my family relationship from my superiors.”
“Did you disclose it to everyone involved in this review?”
Hale didn't answer immediately.
Thomas stood.
“Until we establish the facts, you're relieved of responsibility for the historical records review. You'll retain your other duties unless further action becomes necessary.”
“Sir—”
“This is not a discussion.”
Hale lowered his eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
He left without another word.
I watched the door close.
A strange feeling settled over me.
For decades, I had remembered Robert Mercer as a man who put his reputation above the lives of wounded soldiers.
Yet his grandson had just stood before me, carrying the same name in everything but spelling.
And somewhere beneath my anger, I felt something else.
Pity.
It is a terrible burden to inherit someone else's wrongdoing.
But it is even worse to spend your life protecting it.
Thomas sat beside me.
“Quinn, are you all right?”
“I will be.”
“Did you know Mercer had a family?”
“He mentioned a wife. Once. I never met her.”
Thomas nodded.
“Colonel Hale's mother was Mercer's daughter. Hale himself has an excellent service record. This is the first significant concern I've encountered involving him.”
“Then perhaps we should remember that.”
Thomas looked surprised.
“You're defending him?”
“No. I'm reminding you that a man's grandfather isn't a verdict against him.”
He considered that.
“You're right.”
“Of course I am. I'm eighty-one.”
He laughed, but the moment didn't last.
His phone rang.
He stepped into the corridor to answer.
I remained in the conference room, looking at the old brass pin on my coat.
My husband, Arthur, had hated that pin.
Not because he disapproved of my service.
He was proud of it.
But every time he saw me touch the brass shield, he knew I was remembering Vietnam.
Once, on our twentieth wedding anniversary, he had found me standing alone in the kitchen at two in the morning.
I was holding the pin in my hand.
He hadn't asked what was wrong.
He simply put his arms around me.
“You don't have to carry all of them forever, Quinn,” he whispered.
I had cried against his shoulder.
“I don't know how to put them down.”
Arthur kissed my forehead.
“Then I'll help you carry them.”
After he died, I stopped wearing the pin except on special occasions.
That morning, I had put it on because of the invitation.
I had wanted to honor Patrick and Helen.
I had never expected to open the past again.
Thomas returned to the room.
“Quinn, there's been a development.”
I looked up.
“What kind?”
“The original file isn't where it should be.”
My stomach sank.
“Missing?”
“Officially, it's listed as transferred to a regional records facility thirty-two years ago. But the transfer documentation is incomplete.”
“Convenient.”
“Perhaps. We don't know yet.”
He sat down.
“Our investigators found references to a supplemental statement submitted by Captain Quinn E. Braddock in December 1970.”
I leaned forward.
“My report?”
“Yes.”
“Does it say what happened to it?”
“Only that it was received and forwarded for review.”
“Forwarded to whom?”
Thomas hesitated.
“The office of Major Robert Mercer.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
The man whose conduct I had questioned had apparently been given access to my accusation.
Thomas touched the table gently.
“We still have other avenues. Witnesses, archived correspondence, personnel records, medical documentation.”
“Thomas, most of the people who were there are dead.”
“Not all of them.”
I opened my eyes.
He turned a sheet of paper toward me.
It contained a name I hadn't seen in decades.
SPECIALIST SAMUEL TORRES.
I stared at it.
“Sammy?”
Thomas nodded.
“He survived the war. According to our preliminary information, he's eighty years old and living in New Mexico.”
A memory flashed through my mind.
A young man with blood on his sleeves, trying to lift a stretcher twice his own weight.
Sammy Torres.
He had helped me carry Daniel Whitfield out of the station.
“Can we contact him?”
“We're trying.”
Then Thomas's aide entered.
“General, excuse me. There's a civilian telephone message for Mrs. Braddock.”
The aide placed a written note before me.
I read it once.
Then again.
My hands began trembling.
May you like
The message said:
TELL QUINN BRADDOCK THAT SAMUEL TORRES IS DEAD. IF SHE WANTS TO KNOW WHAT REALLY HAPPENED IN 1970, SHE SHOULD STOP TRUSTING THE ARMY.
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