Free Behind the Walls by Merry Jones

she’d have hanged herself, too. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder could rip your mind apart. Could be lethal.
    ‘At least, that’s what they say. But you and I know better.’
    What? ‘Wait. You’re saying he didn’t hang himself?’
    ‘You knew Pete. He wouldn’t impose on his family that way. No, he would never off himself. Listen, Harper – you were Baxter’s temporary assistant. Think back. There were five of us in that detail. Two are already dead. And one is the Colonel’s personal secretary.’
    Interesting. Nice gig. ‘Rick Owens? Owens works for the Colonel?’
    ‘He’s his fucking personal butt kisser. Which leaves just the two of us loose.’
    Loose? What the hell was he talking about?
    ‘I’m getting some coffee. You want anything?’ She started to stand.
    ‘Wait.’ Burke grabbed her arm, stopping her. ‘Remember when he – when Baxter left? How we loaded the helicopter?’
    Vaguely.
    ‘Remember he had us transfer a bunch of crates?’
    She thought back, felt the heat, the dust. Heard the Humvees’ motors. The deafening whirr of the helicopter’s blades. And she saw the men: Owens, Everett, Murray and Shaw loading it with supplies. Knapsacks. And stacks of boxes.
    ‘I remember. So?’
    ‘So great. Would you testify to that?’
    Testify? What? ‘Burke.’ She tried to sound non-judgmental. ‘I don’t have a clue what’s going on with you, but – honestly. You need help.’
    ‘Listen to me, Harper. Put it together,’ Burke sputtered. He still held her arm, tightened his grip. ‘Jesus Christ. What do you think was in those boxes?’
    She shrugged. ‘Supplies?’
    His eyes were too bright. ‘Guess again.’
    Not supplies? What was Burke thinking? That the crates held drugs? Or – oh God – stolen artifacts? She’d heard about priceless ancient relics being looted from Iraq  . . . But no, that was ridiculous. The Colonel’s crates had been legit supplies. ‘Burke, this is bullshit. Get help.’ She removed his hand from her arm.
    His whisper was raw. ‘You know that Baxter started his own foundation. It sponsors some serious organizations. Militias and such. Survivalist stuff.’
    Really? Harper doubted it; Burke was unbalanced. If he was right, Baxter’s activities were surprising. Maybe even disturbing. But it was his right to sponsor organizations, wasn’t it? This was a free country.
    ‘Not just your usual survivalist groups, either. I’m talking dangerous people. People infiltrating high places. People who make all those skinhead militia extremist freaks look like your grandma’s Canasta club.’
    Actually, Burke sounded kind of like a dangerous extremist freak himself. What had happened to him? And why was he so fixated on Colonel Baxter?
    His eyes gleamed. ‘And now, guess what? Baxter is running for the United States Senate. State of Tennessee.’
    So what? Again, even if it was even true, what difference did it make? What did he expect her to do about it? ‘Burke. Seriously. What point are you trying to make?’
    ‘Harper – he’s funding the campaign with his own cash. Don’t you get it? He’s spent a few million so far.’
    And? Wasn’t that his right? ‘So?’
    Burke’s eyes darted from the window to the door to Harper. ‘Baxter didn’t get rich on a military salary. And he didn’t inherit any big money either. His dad was a high school history teacher. And he didn’t marry money.’
    ‘How do you know all that?’
    ‘The Internet – you can find shit out about anybody.’
    Harper sighed. She wanted to get Burke help but didn’t think he’d allow it. ‘So you’re saying what? That Baxter got his money from Iraq? That he stole something?’
    Burke smiled. ‘Bingo.’
    ‘What did he steal?’
    He tilted his head, scowling. ‘Money. Harper – the US sent billions over there to be used at the discretion of the military.’
    She knew about it. Everyone did. The Commander’s Emergency Response Program was set up to provide cash for local