Free Every Precious Thing by Brett Battles Page A

nothing,” and started to turn away.
    It was clear, though, that he did know something. “What did you tell him?”
    Swiveling back, the man said, “Didn’t tell him nothing. Nothing to tell.”
    “So he was here.”
    The bartender frowned. “I guess. So what?”
    “My friend wasn’t doing anything wrong. There was no reason for him to get beat up like that.”
    “Then that makes it all the worse, don’t it?”
    This time, the old man did walk off, not stopping until he reached the far end of the bar, where he started wiping down the counter. After a moment, Logan got up and walked over.
    “What did you tell him?”
    “Already told you. Nothing.”
    Logan stared at him, his face immobile.
    The corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you should leave.”
    Logan remained silent.
    The man opened the cash register and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Here’s your money back. I don’t want it. Now get out.”
    Logan heard a chair behind him scrape across the floor. He didn’t know if it was someone coming to the bartender’s aid or heading for the exit, but there was no need to find out.
    “Sure,” he said. He took a step back, leaving the money on the bar. “Thanks for your help.”
    __________
     
    L OGAN’S ALARM WENT off at five minutes to two a.m. Though the El Camino’s seat wasn’t exactly the best place to sleep, it was better than the metal truck bed in back.
    He was in a parking lot behind an insurance office across the street from the Sunshine Room. He got out and walked over to the corner of the building and peeked around it at the bar. The lights were still on, and a few cars remained in the lot, but they wouldn’t be there for long. Two a.m. was closing time in California.
    He watched patiently as people trickled out and drove away. Finally there was only an ancient VW Bug left, so he guessed it must belong to the bartender. He climbed back into the El Camino, and pulled out onto the side street, his lights off.
    Leaning over, he popped open the glove compartment, intending to look for a piece of paper he could write the VW’s license number on. Just inside was a white business-sized envelope. Sara’s note. He didn’t remember putting it in there and guessed he must have left it on the seat, and Harp or Barney stuck it in the box so it wouldn’t be lost. This was not something he could write on, so he lifted it to see if there was anything underneath.
    That’s when he realized it wasn’t Sara’s note. It was the envelope Len had left his father.
    He knew he should just ignore it, but he’d seen how the contents had affected Harp. Maybe if he knew what was inside, he could figure out a way to help. He hesitated, then pulled open the flap.
    He’d been expecting a letter or a picture or something like that. What he found was another, though smaller, envelope. The paper had browned and felt stiff. He couldn’t help noticing the postmark in the corner: May 14, 1944.
    The addressee was Tommy Harper, and the sender was Neal Harper. A letter from Logan’s dad to his uncle.
    He took a breath and flipped it over.
    A letter that had never been opened. The reason was obvious. It had been sent right around the time Uncle Tom went missing.
    No wonder it had hit his father so hard.
    Carefully, Logan put it back the way he’d found it.
    What he knew of his uncle’s time in the navy was little. Tom had served as an ordnanceman on a PBY, which was a plane that landed on water, picking up downed pilots and inserting commando units in places where no other aircraft could get. He also knew Tom’s plane had simply disappeared while returning to its base in Perth, Australia, from a mission in southern Indonesia. That was pretty much it.
    Logan had always been wary of bringing up his uncle to Harp because anytime the subject had arisen, his father’s normal, easy-going manner would dim, almost in reverence.
    Refocusing on why he was sitting in his car in the middle of the night, he found an old