The Falling Away Read Online Free Page A

the proud Greasy Grass Clan, to accept his failures when he himself could not?
    The army had given him a sense of belonging he’d lost on the rez. It had even connected him, in some ways, with his heritage. As part of the army, he’d become a proud Apsáalooke warrior, one of many dating back generations among the Crow people. On the rez, people still told the stories of Apsáalooke conquests, of Apsáalooke traditions and creation stories and honors. Most people on the Crow rez could even speak the Crow language, keeping the ancient and honored ways alive. Dylan had heard these stories so many times they’d become an ingrained part of who he was.
    At the same time, explosive ordnance disposal had been the perfect spot in the army for him. Finding and neutralizing IEDs, ammo stockpiles, and suspicious packages demanded precision and detail, traits that were also an ingrained part of who he was. His mind thrived on patterns, something he had been comfortable discussing with his therapist. She told him his mild compulsions—counting, grouping objects, even splitting anything in his field of vision into equal sections and shapes—were healthy ways of dealing with stress and disorder. Provided they didn’t take over his every waking thought.
    Of course, he hadn’t told her about Joni. Or the kill box. He was pretty sure those didn’t fit under the “healthy way of dealing with stress” label.
    EOD was also perfect because it demanded secrecy and separation. In Iraq there were too few EODs to go around, which was why his company was much smaller than most at thirty soldiers, and why his squad was only three. Insurgent groups in Iraq had promised a $50,000 bounty for any EOD tech killed, and so entire EOD companies had been forced to live apart from other troops in their own workshops, interacting only among themselves and cutting off all contact with the outside world.
    In a way that mirrored what Dylan had done since losing Joni. He’d cut himself off from his family, from the clan to which he belonged, from friends and all he knew. Enlisting in the army, becoming an EOD, embarking on a tour of Iraq . . . those were all efforts at a personal penance, and nothing anyone outside could hope to understand.
    All of those feelings had coursed through his body as his flight landed at Billings Logan airport. Even today, the Apsáalooke people welcomed back their sons and daughters from the battlefield with smudging ceremonies in the airport itself, an honoring of their warrior tradition. For that to happen, though, they had to know a son or daughter was coming home. And the son or daughter returning had to be worth honoring.
    Dylan had done a fair job of making sure neither of those applied to him.
    He waited for all the other passengers to clear the plane before he ventured into the narrow aisle himself, propping his still-healing leg on a cane and making his way first to the Jetway, then to the interior of the airport itself. He moved slowly up the ramps toward the baggage claim area and paused at the top of the escalator that would take him to the main floor. Below him, dozens of people were welcoming friends and family, returning home from business trips or vacations or adventures.
    But no one had been there to welcome Dylan Runs Ahead. Just as it should be.

5
    Twenty minutes after shooting two Canadian drug runners, Dylan pulled off the rutted tracks that looked like scars in the frozen earth and back onto State Route 338. He headed south toward Harlem and the Fort Belknap Reservation. From this exact point, he knew, they were 47.6 miles from the town of Harlem; he’d checked the odometer earlier.
    Dylan looked at Webb, who hadn’t spoken since they got back in the truck. The scent of blood filled the cab. “Can you move your arm?”
    Webb turned his face toward Dylan. It looked as if he were having a hard time focusing his eyes. “Huh?”
    â€œYour