"As a matter of fact, Lieutenant, in his stories filed since his return, Mr. Pearson has described being beaten and starved while he was a prisoner, as well as other forms of physical and psychological torture. Is it safe to assume you suffered similar treatment?"

During the silence that followed the question, Jessie realized that her throat felt raw and sore, as if she'd been screaming and yelling for hours. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and made herself think about playing on the beach when she was a girl, picking up shells and starfish and dancing barefoot in the lapping surf. It was a coping technique she'd learned to help herself when things went bad in the NICU. Watching a dying baby struggle for its last breaths wasn't an easy thing to do, but neither, she discovered, was watching her husband struggle to escape the horror of his memories.

At last, when she thought she wasn't going to be able to stand the suspense another minute, he ducked his head toward the microphone again. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "That's something I don't care to get into. That's in the past. I'd like to keep it there-put it behind me and get on with my life. Right now I'm looking ahead to the future I didn't think I was ever gonna have. I'm looking forward to getting back home, seeing my daughter, spending time with my wife…flying again. That's what I want to think about now. The past is over and done with. Let it be. That's all I have to say. Thank you…"

He turned away from the lectern, and Jessie's heart turned over when she saw his face. It was ravaged, haggard…tense and drawn…the face of someone looking into hell.

One of the officers in dress uniform quickly stepped up to the microphone and thanked all the reporters for coming. The press conference-one ordeal, at least-was over.

Chapter 9

Jess didn't say much in the car as they were being driven to the plane. Although Tristan knew there were two good reasons for her reticence-Al Sharpe at the wheel and Lieutenant Commander Rees beside him in the front seat-he still had the feeling the reason for her silence was that once again he'd let her down. Since the news conference he'd felt her disappointment like a physical touch; her unanswered questions were an incessant tapping behind his temples.

But explaining to her why he couldn't give her the answers she wanted seemed utterly beyond him, and eventually he put his head back against the seat and pretended exhaustion. He didn't have to pretend much, and the headache he had was real enough. Evidently, he wryly told himself, the aftereffects of a little too much Altbier.

It wasn't until they were in the Air Force jet somewhere over the North Atlantic that Jess finally broke a long, droning silence. Out of the blue-so to speak-she said, "It might be better if you talked about it."

Tristan had been dozing, drifting in and out of shadows. Shaking off their wispy remnants, he turned his head to look at her. Her luminous eyes, filled only with compassion and concern, were to him a silent accusation. Pretending to misunderstand, he yawned, grinned and leaned closer to murmur huskily, "I'd a whole lot rather do than talk about it, sweetheart. Told you I was gonna make it up to you. Soon as I get the chance."

He could almost feel the heat of her blush, but her gaze didn't waver. She said breathlessly, "That's not what I mean, and you know it. Tris, what happened to you…you can't expect it not to have-I mean, PTSD isn't something to be ashamed-"

He made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh and rolled his head away from her. "God, Jess, don't you start. I've heard it all from the military shrinks, believe me."

"Then why-"

"What's the point?" His voice, though barely above a whisper, was explosive, like an air gun letting go, and he paused for several breaths to force himself to ease up. "Look," he said when he felt calm enough, "who do you think's going to understand? Nobody can understand. Nobody. I can talk about it until the cows come home and it's not gonna make anybody know what it was like. Ever. Okay, Cory Pearson's a journalist, he's gonna write about it because that's who he is. It's what he has to do, I guess. But not one word he writes, I don't care how good he is with words, not one word is ever gonna make anyone feel what we felt. So what's the point in talking about it?"

"That's not what it's for-talking about it." Her whisper had a sticky sound. "It's to help you."

"Oh, yeah? Help me do what? Remember?" He fought against the sudden stabbing urge to tell her everything. About the pain, the cold and the hunger, the humiliation, the sense of utter powerlessness, the fear, the isolation, the constant expectation of death. Revulsion overwhelmed him and he couldn't stop a shudder. "Trust me, I don't need any help remembering. What I need is to forget."

"Yes, but you can't-"

"Jess, don't. Look…let's get something straight. I'm not gonna dump what's in here-" he tapped his temple "-in my head all over you. I won't do that, so don't ask me again." The fine skin around her eyes flinched at his harshness. He couldn't stand to look at her eyes. He drew a quick, hurting breath and after a moment went on brokenly, "Tell me-what kind of a man would I be if I laid all that on you? It's bad, Jess. Understand? It's enough one of us has to carry it around. I'm not about to burden you with it, too."

He could see she didn't begin to understand, even before she whispered fiercely, "I'm your wife, dammit. It's my job to help you carry your burdens. Please, Tris. Talk to me."

Gazing at her, he felt all at once a tremendous helplessness, a sense that she was slipping away from him, as though a powerful force, like a flood or a tornado wind, had torn her from his grasp and was carrying her farther and farther out of his reach. From across the widening chasm between them, he slowly shook his head. "I can't, Jess. I'm sorry."

"If not to me, then somebody, dammit."

Aching with a new grief, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.


* * *

Pressed against the crowd-control barricade, Sammi June shaded her eyes with her hand and stared across the shimmering tarmac. Behind her she could feel Grampa Max's silent presence, a bulwark against the press of the restless, flag-waving crowd. He wasn't especially tall-only a couple of inches taller than she was-but for an old guy he was solid and strong, and even though she'd never felt close to him and hadn't been thrilled to learn he'd be accompanying her to Washington for the big reunion, she was glad he was with her now.

Sammi June's earliest memories of Grampa Max were of a growly man with fiercely scowling eyebrows who visited now and then and was always pointing a threatening finger at her and barking, "You!" Eventually, and she had no idea how, it came to her that this only was Grampa's way of playing with her, and that it pleased him when she planted her hands on her hips and thrust out her chin and shouted "You!" right back to him. And that if she was brave enough to ignore the scowls and push past that scolding, threatening finger and climb into his lap, he would laugh and hug and cuddle her-although sometimes he'd tickle her roughly instead.

Later she'd learned that Grampa Max wasn't ever going to be the sort of grown-up who tried to "make up" to kids to get them to like him by playing their games or buying them presents or taking them places, but that he was the "go-to" guy when something got broken. Grampa Max could fix anything, and Sammi June used to save all her broken toys in a cardboard box for when he came to visit. Grampa Max could also be counted on to let her sneak sips of his beer when nobody was looking.

After her dad had gone off to the Persian Gulf and hadn't come back, Sammi June saw less and less of Grampa Max. He'd seldom visited Momma and her at Gramma's house, even after he retired and moved to Florida, which was much closer than when he'd had to fly all the way from Seattle. On those rare occasions when he called her on the phone, like on her birthday or Christmas, it was hard to think of things to say to him, and she was always glad to say goodbye and hand the phone over to Mom-although Sammi June had the feeling her mother didn't find it any easier to talk to Grampa Max than she did. It was as if the loss they all shared, rather than bringing them to a common meeting place, had instead made walls between them.

Now, stealing a sideways glance at the grandfather she barely knew, Sammi June thought it was funny-strange funny-that the same things about Grampa Max that had made him seem scary when she was little were what made her glad he was here with her now. A strong, erect, proud man, with that same scowl she remembered, a craggy nose and a jaw that looked as if it had been carved in granite, he looked steadfast and sure and completely in control. No sloppy emotions there for her to have to worry about, that was for sure.

Then she happened to look down. Grampa Max had moved up to stand beside her and was gripping the barricade, leaning forward a little on his hands. She saw a mechanic's hands-big, strong, gnarled and scarred hands that had spent a lifetime building things, mending things…building airplanes, mending broken toys. As Sammi June stared at her grandfather's hands she saw the knuckles whiten. And it came to her like a swift and unexpected blow, the realization of what it must feel like to be a father, to be a proud strong man who builds airplanes and fixes things, and to have your only son die in an airplane, to have your life and the lives of everyone you love broken into a million pieces and know there's nothing in the world you can do to fix it.