The Final Line (11 page)

“Good enough to audition for a part in your own TV show?” Corey asked.

Sean laughed and the sound made Corey smile.

“Not my own show, no. Just guest roles on other people’s shows. Most of the new starring roles get cast during the first part of the year and are filmed during pilot season in March.” Sean sounded distracted again. The music paused briefly before starting up again.

“You sound busy,” Corey said. “Should I let you go?”

“No, you should not,” Sean said firmly. “I have an audition with HBO in a few weeks. I might get lucky and get picked up for one of their new off season series. One of the good ones that only has a thirteen episode season and the writers worry about quality instead of advertising.”

“That would be cool,” Corey said around a yawn. He tugged his blanket up around his chest. “I could tell everyone I knew you before you were rich and famous.”

“Fuck that,” Sean said hotly. The music stopped all together. “You’ll visit me on set and wait for me in my trailer so you can cater to my every, egomaniacal whim.”

Corey laughed, a nearly forgotten sense of joy welling up inside of him. “I’ll retire from the Corps and become your personal bodyguard.”

The now-familiar notes of music began again. Corey thought he could actually make out the structure of a song.

“Now that is a spectacular plan,” Sean said with a laugh.

Corey lapsed into silence as he lay listening to Sean’s fingers move expertly over the strings. It occurred to him that Sean might have been writing this song as they talked. He’d have to ask.

“Are you still with me?” Sean’s voice was like a caress.

Corey gasped, realizing he’d lost time. “I think I might have drifted off for a minute.”

“Good.” Sean’s voice was quiet, but in the deep of the night, it felt like he was right there with Corey. “That’s what I wanted. Think you can sleep through the night now?”

Corey burrowed deeper into his rack, tucking the covers around his shoulders. He had his cell on his pillow and his ear resting on it. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyelids too heavy to stay open. “Yeah, I think I can,” he muttered.

“Good. Call me again tomorrow if you need to.” There was a long pause. “Hang up your phone, Corey.”

“’Kay. Thanks,” he snuffled against his pillow. “G’night.”

“Good night.”

Corey managed to end the call and slide his phone to the bed beside him. The next thing he knew, his bedside alarm clock was jolting him awake.

CHAPTER SIX

Corey stepped into the BRC offices early Monday morning, feeling more rested and refreshed than he had in longer than he could remember. They had classroom sessions this week and he was going to take advantage of the schedule and get himself to the doctor.

“Good morning, Master Sergeant,” he greeted.

Whitfield looked up and his expression darkened when he saw Corey. “Staff Sergeant Yarwood, you were supposed to be my easy Marine,” he said.

Corey’s stomach plummeted. “Master Sergeant?”

Picking up several stacks of papers, Whitfield began to read, “Today at fifteen hundred hours, you’re to report and be interviewed in conjunction with a DOD investigation into the events surrounding an incident during your last deployment.” Whitfield tossed aside one of the sheaves of papers. “The District Attorney needs to interview you regarding statements made last night by Sergeant Michael Nygaard.” Another group of papers fell to the desk. “The defense attorney for Sergeant Michael Nygaard is demanding an interview as well.”

Corey drew himself to attention and stared at a spot on the wall just beyond Master Sergeant Whitfield. His blood rushed in his ears at the realization that his life was spiraling out of his control. Christ. When had Corey ever really had control?

“At ease, Staff Sergeant,” Whitfield said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “All indications are that you haven’t done a damn thing wrong.”

Corey was weak with relief as he stood at ease. “I have done nothing to shame myself or the Corps, Master Sergeant,” Corey replied.

Whitfield picked up the summons for Kellan’s investigation. He shook his head slowly. “What the fuck happened in Ghazni, Yarwood?”

“Beg your pardon?” Corey swallowed hard, hoping the question was rhetorical.

“Everything seems to stem from whatever it was that happened in Ghazni,” Whitfield said. “Whatever it is that’s being covered up has to do with what Nygaard allegedly did the other night. Now he wants to claim that what happened there was so traumatic he wasn’t responsible for his own actions.”

“Honestly, Master Sergeant, I don’t know what happened in Ghazni.” Corey sighed heavily. “At least I don’t know what it is they’re covering up. I don’t even know who’s doing the covering up.”

“Reynolds sure has his work cut out for him,” Whitfield muttered. “How did you get sucked into this shit with this Nygaard?”

“Completely against my will,” Corey said through clenched teeth. “He asked for me to be called at the time he was booked into Vista jail. I responded as a
friend
, Master Sergeant. I may hate his guts but he’s a fellow Marine.”

“Understood, Staff Sergeant,” Whitfield replied. “I expect you to continue to provide honest and honorable assistance in this matter.”

“Should I speak with a JAG officer?” Corey asked.

Whitfield’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck for, if you haven’t done anything wrong?”

“This thing with Nygaard goes outside of the Corps,” replied Corey. “I don’t want to unknowingly say or do anything to embarrass or damage the Corps.”

Whitfield regarded Corey intently for several long moments. “If you have concerns in that regard, by all means make contact.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant. Thank you.” Corey added that to his growing list of things he needed to do this week.

“As for today, you will report to Division HQ at fifteen hundred hours for your interview with the DOD investigation.” Whitfield handed Corey the written order to appear.

“Yes, Master Sergeant.” Corey hesitated. “We’re scheduled for classroom instruction time later this week, correct?”

“Affirmative.” Whitfield looked at him questioningly.

“I need to schedule a medical appointment, if time allows.” Corey worded his request carefully.

“Is the cold not clearing up?” Whitfield asked.

“It’s fine,” Corey assured him quickly. “Nothing wrong that will affect my job performance, I promise.”

“I’m not worried about your job performance, Staff Sergeant.” Whitfield watched Corey shrewdly. “You do what you have to do to take care of yourself.”

Corey gave a sharp nod, acknowledging the Master Sergeant’s accurate assumption. “I’ll coordinate with the schedule and advise you of the appointment time.”

At 1430 hours, Corey notified Whitfield he was stepping off to report to Division HQ. He also told the Master Sergeant the date and time of his medical appointment he’d scheduled for later that week. Corey climbed into his Jeep and drove the several miles from the Basic Recon training facility to the building that housed 1
st
Marine Division’s headquarters.

Unlike most of the facilities on Camp Pendleton, Division HQ wasn’t dull and utilitarian. It was an attractive structure with painted walls, thick Berber carpet, and sturdy wooden office furniture.

Entering the quiet building with its rarified air, Corey removed his cover and folded it into a leg pocket on his trousers. His orders had specified utilities were appropriate but Corey felt like he should be in his olive green service uniform.

Approaching the civilian Admin seated behind a low desk, Corey said, “Staff Sergeant Corey Yarwood, reporting as ordered, ma’am.”

“They’re waiting for you, Staff Sergeant,” she replied levelly. “Follow me, please.” She rose and led Corey to a heavy door of dark wood.

When she reached for the handle, Corey leapt forward. He also reached for the handle, careful not to make contact with the woman. “Let me get that for you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant.” She stepped back and waited for him to open the door and hold it for her. She had the calm air of someone who was used to this ritual.

Corey followed her down a short hallway, their footsteps muted by the thick carpet. She paused outside of an open doorway and indicated he was to enter.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Corey said, giving a slight bow as he passed her.

“You’re welcome, Staff Sergeant.” She closed the door behind him.

Corey found himself in a small conference room. Directly ahead was a long table of dark wood. On Corey’s side of the table was a single, well padded chair. It was a hell of a lot nicer than the conference room chairs in the training facility.

Seated behind the table were two men and a woman. Corey froze. Neither Kellan nor Jonah were anywhere in sight. The Earth seemed to tilt beneath his feet. He took a deep breath and fisted his hands at his sides.

“Have a seat Staff Sergeant,” said the man seated in the center. He wore the olive green of the Marine Corps’ service uniform.

Corey briskly crossed the room. The man on the left was civilian. Up close, Corey identified the other two as Marine Corps captains.

Standing behind the single chair, Corey snapped to attention and saluted. When his salute was returned, Corey sat down. His feet were flat on the floor, spine straight, palms resting on his thighs.

“Relax, Staff Sergeant,” the officer in the center said. “We’re just asking questions today. Nothing you haven’t answered before.”

“Yes, sir.” Corey didn’t relax his posture.

The captain picked up a small black device. He pointed it at the end of the table. Corey saw a video camera pointed right at him. The red light came on and the officer set down the small remote.

“Staff Sergeant Yarwood, to my right is NCIS Special Agent Chris Hoffman.”

“Sir.” Corey greeted. The agent gave Corey a quick, easy smile.

“To my left is the Marine Corps representative to these proceedings, Captain Madeline Evans.”

“Ma’am.” Corey inclined his head respectfully in her direction.

“Staff Sergeant,” Captain Evans replied, her expression open and pleasant.

“And I am Captain Mirai Hirata with the Marine Corps Judge Advocate Services.” The lawyer’s dark eyes held Corey’s steadily. His eyebrows lifted quizzically as he made sure Corey understood who all the players were.

Corey’s gut twisted painfully. “Sir? May I ask why NCIS and the J.A.S. are involved?”

Captain Hirata now looked puzzled. “This is a criminal investigation, Staff Sergeant. But don’t be concerned, you’re a witness, not a subject of the investigation.”

That didn’t comfort Corey as much as it was probably intended to. “It’s just that I was told Kellan Reynolds was conducting the investigation, sir.”

“He is. He’s heading up the investigation. We’re gathering information on his behalf and under his direction,” Hirata replied.

Corey gave himself a mental kick in the ass. He should have known this wasn’t going to be as easy as a casual chat with Kellan and Jonah. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

The questions began where they always did. Corey was asked to recall the date and time of the incident in Ghazni, Afghanistan. He recalled the IED blast that claimed the lives of three Marines. Corey was then ordered by his Lieutenant to take half of the platoon and make entry into a nearby house where they were being fired upon. Corey had taken his men into the house. Once the house was secure and the enemy neutralized, Corey had ordered Sergeant Nygaard to take a team of five Marines and secure the perimeter of the house.

Corey and his men gathered up the corpses of the men they had killed and returned to the Humvees. He found his platoon commander, Lieutenant Dominic Adams, had led an assault on an enemy vehicle that had approached their position.

With everything secured and their casualties loaded into the Humvees, the platoon was RTB—return to base—he elaborated, not sure if his audience had seen combat to know the radio jargon. Corey completed and submitted his after action. As far as he had been concerned, the incident was behind them all.

Until they had returned home and Corey had begun to hear the scuttlebutt. He’d cooperated with the Marine Corps’ investigation and, once again, had thought it was all in the past.

Corey completed his story and expected to be dismissed, as he always had been in the past. He watched the three people in front of him consult reports and other documents. They shared the notes they had each written as Corey had told his story.

“We have some questions for you now, Staff Sergeant,” Captain Evans said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Corey replied. His leg bounced violently. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry as a bone. If he was a witness, this shouldn’t be adversarial. Corey cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Captains. Is it possible to get some water?”

“Of course.” The reply came from Special Agent Hoffman. Corey watched him retrieve a bottle of chilled water from a small table across the room. As he handed Corey the bottle, he asked, “Is there anything else you need? This is pretty grueling.”

The cool water was soothing on Corey’s dry mouth and throat. He downed half of the bottle before answering. “Not as grueling as the incident itself, sir.”

“No, of course not,” Hoffman said gravely. His expression darkened, his eyes held shadows Corey recognized in those who had seen violence and death.

“All due respect, I’ll be happy when this is finally resolved and I don’t have to keep reliving it.” Corey shocked himself with his confession.

“Is there any one thing that bothers you to think about, more than anything else?” inquired Captain Evans.

Corey’s mind went blank. The loud crunching of the bottle in his hand startled him. He looked down, surprised to see his own hand crushing the plastic. “No, ma’am,” he choked in response.

“All right then,” she said carefully, making notes on her legal pad. “When Lieutenant Adams ordered you to take half of the platoon and make entry into the nearby structure, did he specify what course of action you were to take in order to execute your mission?”

No one had asked that question before. Corey thought back to that day, replaying in his mind the words the LT has used and what his responses had been. “No ma’am. His orders were to enter the structure and neutralize the enemy firing on our position.”