“Jesus, Rick,” Preacher said, almost weak. “Aw, man…”

Rick shook his head. “Well, it’s mine. I did it.”

“It wasn’t just you, buddy,” Preacher said, remembering too well the little sexpot act Liz was putting on back then.

“She’s carrying the baby,” Rick said. “The least I can do is take the blame. Besides, she didn’t hold me down.” He took a breath. “Guys. I’m sorry. I let you down. I fucked up. Big.”

Jack felt a proud smile threaten his lips. Any other seventeen-year-old boy would be on his way out of town, but not Rick. He was stepping up the best he could, like a man. Accountable. Facing Jack and Preacher had to be as hard for him as facing this disaster. “You manage to work anything out?”

“No, not really. You can’t really do too much the second you find out. You know? But I told her I’m in this with her. And I want her to not be afraid anymore. Then I told Connie that I’ll pay for everything, no matter what I have to do.”

“How’d Connie and Ron hold up?” Preacher asked him.

“Oh, I think they pretty much want to kill me right now,” Rick said. “I did an awful lot of groveling. Apologizing. Begging. Promising to work till I drop dead seemed to ease the pain a little bit.”

“You probably won’t have to do that,” Jack said. “We can always help you with extra hours. School’s important, Rick. No matter what else comes.”

“Thanks. The most important thing right now is that she not be scared. She’s so frickin’ scared, it kills me. I not only knocked her up, I terrified the shit outta her! Holy Jesus! Aw, guys. I know you expected better out of me than this.”

“Rick, you didn’t let anyone down,” Jack said. “Shit happens. You handled yourself real well. Better than most guys in your position would.”

“You see how scared she was? You know why? She told me everything was okay because I kept asking and asking, like that was all I cared about. And the second she let me off the hook, I dumped her!” He scrubbed a hand along the back of his sweaty neck. “I knew I screwed that up, I just didn’t know how bad. I thought I was keeping us out of trouble—instead I was keeping her from telling me sooner. If I’d known sooner, maybe we could’ve done something about—that baby,” he said softly, almost reverently. “That baby’s moving inside her. I felt it move. Holy God.”

Jack felt something in his chest stir. He was over forty and more than ready for a family, true, but he could relate to Rick’s shock and awe just the same.

As for Preacher, no one in the world knew how much he’d give for a mess like this one. Not even Jack.

“She’s just a kid,” Rick said. “I don’t know how I’m going to make this up to her.”

“For starters, you’re in this with her,” Preacher said. “You treat her good, sweet as you can, with respect. You treat her like the mother of your baby, no matter what’s coming for that baby.”

“Yeah,” Rick said. “She asked me if I loved her,” he said uncomfortably.

Silence hung in the air for a second. Then Jack got down a third glass and tipped the whiskey bottle over it, a short shot. He pushed it toward Rick. He probably needed it right about now.

“What’d you say?” Preacher asked.

“She’s got my baby in her, Preach. She didn’t ask for it. What the hell was I gonna say, huh? Maybe I should’ve said, I sure thought I did last spring when we were doing it—that’d be a real stand-up guy.” He looked down into that short shot and shook his head. “I said, ‘Of course I do.’”

“Aw, Rick, that was the right thing,” Preacher said. “What else could you do?”

Jack clinked Rick’s glass; he was damn proud of the boy. No feeling sorry for himself, no whining about how he got screwed. No blaming. It took a lot to straighten your back like that, hold your head up, be the strength and not the victim. Took a lot to do that at any age—and at seventeen, it was admirable. “You’re going to be okay, buddy,” he said, hoping it was true.

“I feel like I have to do something, and I have no idea what,” Rick said.

“Right now, you do nothing,” Jack said. “You take some time to think. Don’t get crazy on me and run off and get married or something. You’re seventeen, she’s fifteen, and the only thing for sure is a baby’s coming. You just hang close to her, treat her right, and we’ll figure it all out.”

“Jack, Preach,” he said, his eyes getting a little wet. “Guys, I’m sorry. You tried to warn me about this and I—”

“Rick,” Jack said, stopping him. “You’re not the first guy to walk down this road, okay? Take it slow.” Jack lifted his glass and had a little sip. “We’re gonna get through this. Might be tough, but thank God—we’re tough.”

Eight

All of Judge Forrest’s determination to get Wes Lassiter to trial quickly hit a predictable snag—Forrest was in Mendocino County and Lassiter was arrested in Humboldt County. His case would go before a different judge.

Lassiter had been found to be in possession of methamphetamine at the time he assaulted his wife, a condition that his lawyer argued contributed to his crazed behavior and lack of judgment. The prison sentence could be impressive, if he was convicted. But his lawyer pleaded for drug treatment and the judge allowed bail on the condition that Lassiter would stand trial for one misdemeanor and two felony counts after drug rehab, and that successful completion of treatment could be held in sentencing consideration. There were other conditions—if he checked himself out of treatment early, his bail would be revoked and he could sit in jail, awaiting trial. And while ordinarily treatment centers operated under a code of strict anonymity, in Lassiter’s case, the prosecutor’s office would be able to check in, make sure he was still under wraps and not a threat to his family.

Brie called Paige. “Don’t take this decision as bad news,” she said. “It’s entirely possible that sobriety will make a huge difference in his perspective. My recommendation is that you proceed with the dissolution of the marriage and custody arrangements. He can stall you while he’s in treatment—but given the facts of the decision, my bet is that he’ll prove cooperative to keep his sorry ass out of prison.”

“How long will he be in treatment?” Paige asked.

“It’s hard to say. A month is a minimum, but meth is a pretty tough drug and I’ve heard of people staying as long as several months. In order for this agreement to work in his best interest, he can’t just quit. He has to be released by a supervisor.”

“I have no idea how bad his drug problem is,” Paige said. “I suspected drugs. I found something that looked like drugs once, but I was afraid to ask him about it. If it’s a matter of convincing a supervisor he’s cured—he’s very manipulative.”

“Yeah, they all are. Believe me, if there’s one place in the world the pros are on to the cons, it’s drug treatment.”

“I’ll be looking over my shoulder for months….”

“Paige, with what you’ve been through, as long as he’s alive you’ll be looking over your shoulder. Ask Preacher to teach you how to shoot.”

It took her a couple of days of thought before she broached the idea to John.

“That’s worth thinking about,” he said. “We could do that. In the meantime, I called my buddy Mike to be sure scum-bucket was where he belonged in L.A., but now that he’s gone to that treatment center in Minnesota, you should call the prosecutor’s office and check on him.”

“Oh,” she said, kind of squeamish. “Maybe I could have my lawyer do that?”

“Think about it, Paige,” Preacher said. “Take control. You know I’m glad to look out for you, but it’s important you get your confidence back. That confidence I know you had before…all this.”

Yes, she thought. I did have confidence once. Not as much as some young women, maybe—but enough to carve a little space out of the world for herself. And although it seemed barely noticeable to her, it was coming back, piece by tiny piece. She was going to have to reclaim her former self-assurance, self-trust—she was going to be a single parent to Christopher.

She hadn’t thought she could ask for that restraining order or custody; fear had had her in its grip. But with John at her side, encouraging her, she had. It was ugly and terrifying, but she’d gotten through it and Wes had been taken away in handcuffs. He might be in a cushy treatment program right now, but it wasn’t over. He had a lot to atone for, and his atonement might come behind bars, freeing her and her son for years. Now that she was on this track—getting free, getting her life back—she was determined to stare it in the face. No matter how scared she was.

She paced back and forth in front of the kitchen phone, then picked it up and called. The next day she paced less, and when she got the A.D.A.’s secretary on the phone, she was told they hadn’t checked that day and might not have time—perhaps she could call back the next day. Suddenly, she was furious. “No!” she said. “Do you understand my life and my child’s life are in constant danger from this man? That he’s threatened to kill me, and if you take a look at my medical records, it’s obvious he tried? No. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’ll call back in an hour!” She hung up the phone, heart hammering, and stole a look at Preacher. She could feel the heat on her cheeks.

He lifted one eyebrow and smiled slightly. “There you go,” he said.

Her call was returned twenty minutes later by the assistant district attorney himself. He reassured her, then gave her the number of the treatment center and the name of a counselor with whom he’d been in contact, inviting her to call directly, as many times a day as it took.

Again she paced in front of the phone. “What’s wrong?” Preacher asked her.

“I don’t know. It’s like I’m afraid he’ll answer or something.”

“And what if he did?”

“I’d die!”

“No,” he said calmly. “You’d hang up, because you don’t have to talk to him ever again. Right?”

“I don’t,” she said, a little bit surprised by that reality. Her mind started spinning—what if he denied ever having touched her? What if he convinced them he was sorry? She picked up the phone immediately, punching in the numbers, though her brain twisted with possibilities. What if he wanted a message delivered to her? What if he asked to call her, to talk to Christopher? He never talked to Christopher, but she wouldn’t put it past him to act as though he cared about his son.

The phone was answered, the counselor she asked for was put on and she said, “This is Paige Lassiter. I’m just calling to be sure Wes Lassiter is still there.”

“All tucked in, ma’am,” he said, his voice calm and friendly. “Rest easy.”

“Thank you,” she said weakly.

“You try to have a nice day.”

She hung up the phone, trembling for a moment. Then she looked at John and found him smiling. “I know it’s hard,” he said, his voice soft. “But every day you take your life back a little more. That’s how it’s done, Paige.”

There was a road into Fallujah, Iraq, that held a strong reputation for mortal danger. American troops had fallen there before. When Sergeant Major Jack Sheridan led his platoon in, one of his squads, led by Gunnery Sergeant Miguel—Mike to his friends—Valenzuela, was separated from the platoon by a suicide truck bomb. They were holed up in an abandoned building with injuries, pinned down by sniper fire. Joe Benson and Paul Haggerty were bleeding dangerously, along with others wounded by sniper fire. Gunny held off snipers with an M16 he fired repeatedly for hours until the rest of the platoon—Preacher among them—could subdue the insurgents and effect a rescue. When it was over, Mike could barely move his arm and his shoulder was frozen. He was decorated for his heroic performance.