“I think Jason knows who killed her. He won’t tell the cops, though. I’m trying to understand why.”

“You want to help him, is that it?” Darzell lit a cigarette, and snapped the lighter shut. “Ride in like the cavalry, all junior G-man and shit?”

“Something like that. I’d think you’d want the same thing.”

“First of all, Jason French has never needed the cavalry, but let’s say this time he does, and that you, little man, and you, sweetness”—he pointed a cigarette at Becky—“you’re the ones on horseback riding to his rescue. What is it you need from me?”

I wasn’t exactly sure what I needed. “To understand him, I guess. He won’t go to the cops, and I can’t get my head around that. I guess I want to know how he’s changed, and why it happened. If I knew that, then maybe I could talk to him.”

“You want his stories. I get it. You want to know about war, and what it does to a man. All right, let me break this down.” Darzell pointed again with the cigarette. “War is personal, kid. You’re surrounded by other soldiers, but you’re fundamentally alone. Every combat soldier will tell you the same. You pull the trigger, and a man dies. You paint a tree with his brains or spill his guts out in the mud. The how of it don’t signify, except in the nightmares, maybe, or what you see in the mirror first time you find the courage to look. ’Cause the truth of it is this: whether you’re a good soldier or not, a coward or right as the rain, you own the bullet and the guts; and that’s just the way of it: who you kill or don’t kill, what buddy goes chickenshit and runs, or steps wrong and blows off his leg. Stories, motherfucker! That’s what the people want—reporters and draft dodgers and rich, white college boys. And yeah, maybe I’d be talking about you if this weren’t about your brother. But you got to be there. You dig? You got to be in the shit to understand the shit. ’Cause that was my friend, lost his leg, and me who carried the fucker out, choking on his blood, trying to keep him from bleeding out. You know how long it takes a busted femoral to squirt a body dry? Stories, man! That’s the problem, because the stories are mine, and they’re personal. Maybe I share them and maybe I don’t, but that’s on me, too. Now I have to ask myself if Jason’s any different, if he wants me telling his stories?”