One September Morning. Rosalind Noonan
ONE SEPTEMBER MORNING
ROSALIND NOONAN
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
PART ISeptember 2006
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
PART IIDecember 2006
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
PART IIIJanuary–May 2007
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chaper 76
Chapter 77
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
My sister, Nurse Maureen, put the brakes on single parenting, her job at the hospital, and real estate ventures to advise me on medical issues and share what it’s like to work in a psych ward. Cory Noonan is my new sister, unofficial publicist, and generous source for all things marine and aquatic. To Sofia, wellspring of joy and purity—thanks for the inspiration, love bug! My good friends Nancy Bush and Lisa Jackson generously share the glory, the publicity ops, and the lunch special at Gubancs. Many thanks to my friend and free therapist Wendy Handwerger, who helps me laugh at life. A shout to my very functional siblings, Denise, Larry, Mo, Jack. Mom must have done something right. And to my mom, supportive, smart, and great company—you’re the best!
I am eternally indebted to my editor, John Scognamiglio, who lets me seize stories that grab me and run like crazy with them.
A big thank-you to my kids, who both have great writing instincts and will occasionally talk through a scene with me. My husband, Mike, former cop and born psychologist, is always generous with information he soaks up like a sponge. Thanks, Sig.
Prologue
Iraq, 2006
The king is dead.
Americans will no longer turn on their televisions to watch him run the ball through a pack of hulking football players, breaking free to lope into the end zone. Viewers of the nightly news will not see him in a combat helmet and desert khakis, flashing a smile and telling a reporter about a community program he facilitated to get school supplies for Iraqi children.
He won’t come bounding into the barracks to roust the guys for a race or to hand out the candy or nuts or clean cotton sheets he just received in a package from home.
No more soldiers gathering to bask in the presence of the king.
No more jokes from the big guy.
No more photographers aiming their cameras to capture the king in a battle stance, the almighty warrior.
The king is dead, slain with this weapon cradled in the hand of the man who knows him so well. Chee-ee-oom! He pumped the hero full of lead. That was all it took to bring the big man down.
Now the sweet, biting scent of oil stings his sinuses as the new king rams the cleaning rod down the barrel of his M-16, removing all traces of the crime.
Not that it matters, as no one has a clue that he fired off the rounds that spawned a flurry of gunfire in the dark Fallujah warehouse.
Nobody realizes he deliberately aimed and killed Army Specialist John Stanton, big-ass football player, All-American hotshot with a charmed life and a trophy wife.
Nobody knows that a new king will soon take Stanton’s place.
He checks the spring, and then lubes it—lightly. Oil it up too heavily and you’re in trouble—one of the tips he’s learned and heeded in military training. He learned from the best of them. His old man used to tell him, you never break the law unless you can get away with it. Well, he’s getting away with it now, and it feels damned good. He felt a surge of adrenaline when the bullets exploded from his rifle, a swell of satisfaction as the impact pushed the body back in the darkness. The first shot was nice and clean upper arm, in through the armored vest. Thank God for the NOD, the night operation device that illuminated hot spots, making it easy for him to find to his target.
Just like a freakin’ Xbox game.
And the sheer beauty, the perfection of the killing, is that no one will ever suspect him. Why would they? People