Chapter 4 - The Uniform on the Asphalt
The silence that fell over Elmwood Lane when my boots hit the pavement was not the silence of peace; it was the stunned, vacuum-like silence of an audience watching a stage play when the scenery suddenly collapses.
I stood at my full height—five feet, eight inches—straightening the tunic of my Army Service Uniform. The gold braid on my cuffs caught the morning sunlight; the rows of service ribbons on my left breast—the Army Commendation Medal with oak leaf cluster, the Good Conduct Medal, the Afghanistan Campaign Medal with two campaign stars, the Global War on Terrorism Service Medal—stood out in vivid, saturated reds, blues, and golds against the dark wool fabric.
I reached back into the cab, pulled my service cap from the seat, and set it squarely upon my head, the gold brim level with my brow, two fingers above the bridge of my nose, exactly as the drill sergeants at Fort Jackson had drilled into our muscle memory five years ago.
Deputy Miller didn't draw his weapon. His hand slid entirely off his holster. His jaw went slack, his eyes tracking down the length of my uniform, from the brass collar disks bearing the crossed keys and sword of the Quartermaster Corps to the high-gloss shine of my corfam service shoes.
"What the..." Miller muttered, his voice caught by his cruiser's open radio microphone, broadcasting a static-filled hiss across the street.
"Shoot her!"
The shriek came from the porch of 412. Diane Vance had descended the three brick steps, her face contorted into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom. She had lost the pearl stud from her left ear; her hands were clutched into claws against the sides of her cashmere sweater.
"She’s dangerous! She stole that uniform! She’s an escaped felon! Officer, arrest her! Don't look at her, arrest her!"
From behind the sheriff’s cruisers, a white Ford Transit van with a large, roof-mounted satellite dish swung around the corner, its blue and red station logo—CHANNEL 6 NEWS: ON YOUR SIDE—emblazoned across the side panels in bold, reflective vinyl.
The side door of the van slid open before the tires had even fully stopped rolling against the curb.
A woman with sharply cut dark hair, wearing a navy trench coat and holding a black handheld microphone with a large station cube, stepped out. Behind her, a cameraman with a heavy Sony broadcast rig hoisted the camera onto his right shoulder, the red tally light blinking to life immediately.
Sarah Jenkins didn't run toward the police. She ran toward me.
"Specialist Emily Vance?" she called out, her voice clear, professional, carrying over the idling diesel engines of the police cruisers. "Channel 6 News. We’re live on air with Arthur Greer’s documentation. Can you confirm your duty station for the past forty-eight months?"
I didn't look at the camera. I didn't look at Sarah Jenkins.
I turned my back on the press and walked directly toward Deputy Miller.
My strides were measured, regulation thirty-inch steps, the heels of my shoes clicking with crisp, military precision against the asphalt.
"Deputy Miller," I said, stopping three paces from his cruiser’s front bumper. I brought my right hand up to the brim of my cap, executing a crisp, flawless military salute. "Specialist Emily Vance, United States Army, Honorable Discharge pending terminal leave completion, Department of Defense ID number 482-99-0112. I understand there is a complaint regarding an escaped fugitive at this address."
Miller slowly brought his own hand up to his forehead in an awkward, reflexive return salute. He looked past me toward the porch, where Diane had frozen, her mouth open, her chest heaving as if she were running out of air.
"Emily?" Miller breathed, his voice dropping the professional law enforcement tone entirely. "You... you were in the service? Your mom said... your mom told my folks you were doing three-to-five down at Marysville for commercial fraud."
"I was in Kandahar, Tommy," I said, using the name he had worn on the back of his high school varsity jersey. "And before that, Camp Arifjan, Kuwait. I have my DD Form 214, my military orders, and my active duty identification card in my breast pocket. Would you like to inspect them, Deputy?"
From the porch, a new figure emerged through the screen door.
Thomas Vance stood on the threshold. He was wearing an old flannel shirt that had lost two buttons, his hair uncombed, a glass tumbler half-filled with amber liquid held loosely in his left hand. He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time in four years.
The tumbler slipped from his fingers.
It hit the brick steps with a sharp, explosive shatter, the bourbon washing over the fragments of glass and soaking into the mortar.
"Emily?" my father whispered. His voice was cracked, thin, the voice of a man waking from a fifteen-year coma to find his house had burned down around him.
"Tommy," Diane hissed, turning on him like a cornered animal, her voice dropping into a harsh, frantic whisper that the broadcast microphone twenty yards away picked up with crystal clarity. "Get inside the house. Get inside right now. Don't look at them. Arthur Greer has orchestrated this. It’s a setup. It’s a slander campaign."
May you like
"Diane," Pastor Caldwell’s voice drifted across the lawn. The minister had stepped off his walkway, his face pale, his Bible clutched against his ribs. He was looking at the ribbons on my chest, specifically the blue, white, and red stripes of the Army Commendation Medal. "Diane... what is this? You asked the congregation to hold a prayer vigil for Emily’s parole hearing last November. We took up a collection for the prison ministry in her name."
The camera swung smoothly from my face to the pastor, then to Diane Vance, whose back was now pressed flat against the white front door of 412 Elmwood Lane.
