The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) Sheehan-Miles, Charles (good beach reads .txt) 📖

bed. Sweat was beaded on his forehead, and he moved slightly, and the words escaped his mouth. “Colton, he’s just a kid!”

My hand rose involuntarily to my mouth. Oh God, he was dreaming about it. Again. I started to shake, because I’d learned the hard way to not wake up Ray during this dream. Because he’d wake up fighting.

He shouted, “Colton, no!” and slammed a fist into the headboard. I slid to the floor, beside him, and I would have done anything, anything in the world, to help him escape the hell he was in right now. Keeping my head low, below the mattress, below anyplace he could accidentally hit in his sleep, I very carefully reached up with my right hand and rested it on his arm.

Instantly, I felt his left hand grab mine, and hold it, frozen, squeezing painfully, twisting. I suppressed a gasp of fear and pain, and then he suddenly relaxed his grip, and I heard his breathing smooth out, slowly. I tried to swallow the bowling ball in my throat, and not make any noise, but the silent tears running down my face wouldn’t stop as I slowly slid into the bed beside him. He was calm now, his eyes closed, the dream gone. For now.

How come your girl just throws pillows? (Ray)

When I woke up, the summer sunshine poured through our bedroom window. But five seconds later I remembered.

Martin was dead. Suicide.

We’re not getting together for shit, Sherman. You fucked us all.

His voice was a mass inside my head, clouding my thoughts and emotions with darkness. I rolled over in the bed. Carrie wasn’t in here. I’d had some seriously disturbing dreams all night ... Dega Payan, all mixed in with the investigation and crazy scenes of Colton losing his mind.

I didn’t know before the hearing that Martin had caught Colton drinking. He wasn’t the only one.

About a week and a half after Roberts and Kowalski were killed and Dylan injured, I’d stopped in Colton’s office at the base camp. It was pretty late at night, and I’d been worried about him. I found him that night, sitting on a makeshift chair, his eyes glued to a computer screen in the darkness. With the light of the computer screen, I could just make out his pistol, sitting on the desk next to the computer. A magazine was in the hilt, but I couldn’t tell if it was loaded.

“Hey Sarge,” I had said, quietly.

“Sherman,” he replied, his voice low, slurring. That’s when I saw the bottle. Whiskey. The smell cut through the air and made my mouth water.

“You doing okay? Been awful quiet the last few days.”

“Working on a letter to Roberts’ wife.”

“How’s that coming?” I asked, eyeing the pistol.

“Could be better,” he replied. “Sometimes, Sherman, I catch myself wondering what the fucking point is.”

I slid down the wall, studying him. I could see the computer from this position. He had Roberts’ Facebook page up. Beautiful picture of Roberts and his wife was up on the screen. Roberts in his dress blues, his wife in a white dress. Wedding photo. They both had huge smiles, and she was staring up at him like he was the second coming. He was a huge guy, truly massive, and his wife barely came up to his name-tag.

I nodded toward the picture. “The point’s to preserve moments like that. Somebody’s gotta do this job so there’s a chance for that to happen to everyone.”

Colton snorted. “Roberts was a sanctimonious prick. He insisted on praying with me when we got back to the camp after Kowalski was killed. I’d probably still be on my knees next to him if Paris hadn’t fucked up and gotten us sent back out into the field.”

I leaned forward and said, “Sarge, it’s not your fault, just for the record. Just bad fucking luck.”

Colton picked up the pistol, and my heart almost stopped. Then he ejected the clip, setting it on the desk, and cleared the chamber. He raised his eyebrows, and met my eyes, then slid the now unloaded pistol into his holster. “Yeah, kid, I know that.”

I had breathed in a sigh of relief and slid back up the wall.

“Don’t forget it, Sarge. We need you.”

He had nodded and waved me off. As I had left the office, he called out, “Sherman!”

I had turned back, and he had said, “Thanks.”

One thing always leads to another, and not all outcomes are good. Was that kid, Speedy, dead because I talked to Colton that night? Was Martin? How did you trace back the chains of responsibility to a point where you could pin it down completely? I didn’t know the answer to that. I felt like Afghanistan was reaching out and slowly destroying our lives, those of us who made it out of there alive. Would it have been different if I hadn’t reported Colton? Was Martin right?

This is going to sound crazy, but I was actually angry that sunlight was shining in my window. It ought to be raining or cold, night, darkness.

I was going nuts. I slid out of the bed. Fuck. Still wearing my uniform. Whatever. I padded out of the room in my socks in search of a drink, walking straight into the kitchen. Carrie had put on coffee. But what I really wanted was about fifty beers.

She didn’t deserve that, though. So I started to pour myself a cup of coffee, and then saw Dylan Paris out of the corner of my eye. What the fuck? I love Paris. Short of Carrie, he’s my best friend in the world. But seriously. Did she think I was going to kill myself?

My eyes narrowed, and I said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too, Sherman. You look like crap.”

“I feel like crap.”

“You slept in that uniform, didn’t you?”

“Couldn’t find my damn pajamas. Let me get some coffee, for fuck’s sake.”

“Just bring the whole pot. We’re in the living room. It’s almost like sitting on the porch now,