“I gotta get back to work,” he said.
Sometimes Weight comes without warning. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Later then?”
I hesitated, on the verge of saying more. But I’d thrown that choice away. “Sure.”
We hung up.
Dreams die hard, whether it’s love or hope or money. We mean to live our lives one way, end up with something completely different. Thomas Brown had gone to Alfred Merkel’s home to avenge his sister’s death. But in the end, all it had gotten him was the same thing I had.
A whole lot of nothing.
CHAPTER 20
We all get our chance to sit alone in the dark, cheek by jowl with the devil.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
At home, I parked on the street figuring I’d shovel the driveway once the sun was up. I let Clyde into the backyard so he could stretch his legs. In the harsh glare of the porch light, I used the broom leaning by the front door to sweep the stairs. Then I knocked the remaining snow off my boots and let myself inside.
The house was quiet and warm. The furnace hummed softly. I pulled off my boots and coat and went into the kitchen, where I flipped on a light, took off my headset, dropped my bag on the table, and hung my duty belt on a chair. I could sense the dead private’s earlier presence in the room like a faint trail of burn in the air. But the man himself—or his ghost, rather—was absent.
The greasy diner eggs sat heavy in my stomach. I decided to try eating something else, then catch a few hours’ sleep. After that, I would take another crack at finding evidence against Merkel.
Bent deep into the refrigerator, contemplating the contents of a ceramic casserole dish, I barely registered the warning squeak on the linoleum behind me. I grabbed the heavy dish, but before I could turn, something slammed into the back of my knees, buckling me. I crashed into the refrigerator door. Food and shelving rained down. Hands hauled me up, then someone kneed me hard in my lower back. The casserole dish flew out of my hands, spraying chunks of meat and potatoes in a sloppy arc before it smashed into pieces against the cupboards.
I didn’t sail nearly as far but landed just as violently, smacking my face and forearms into the floor.
Outside, Clyde—alarmed at the sudden racket—launched into a five-alarm bark.
For a few seconds, I lay stunned. The linoleum squeaked again. I raised myself to all fours.
“Don’t,” said a deep voice. “I will hurt you.”
Whip, I thought. Alfred Merkel. Come to do to me what he’d done to Elise.
I feinted a collapse, rolled to my side, and scrabbled toward the chair where I’d hung my gun. I made maybe six inches of ground before my assailant slammed a boot into my ribs, then gripped me by my shoulders and flipped me onto my back before bringing his boot down on my chest. A supernova exploded in my sternum. I sucked for air and felt nothing come through my windpipe. Black bloomed around the edges of my vision.
“If I’d wanted it to, that kick would have cracked your sternum,” he said. “Now look at me.”
My lungs opened enough to allow a thin slide of air. I hauled myself to a sitting position, hands clutched to my chest, and shook my head to clear it.
A man stood over me, dressed in filthy woodland camos, eyes as dark as his skin. He sported a month’s worth of beard and a glint in his eyes like an unsheathed blade.
Not Whip.
This man was black. His face was vaguely familiar, but my rattled brain couldn’t place him. He looked around forty-five, wore thin gloves, and had a Colt M1911 aimed at my face. If he fired, there would be nothing left of my head.
“Tell the dog to be quiet,” the man said.
I tried to summon the air to say “Go fuck yourself” but nothing came.
“Tell him. Or I’ll shoot him.”
The man spoke with calm urgency. His hands on the gun were perfectly steady. There was enough steel in his eyes that I believed him not only able but willing.
My windpipe opened and my lungs filled. “Clyde, quiet!”
Clyde stopped barking and whined.
“Tell him again,” the man said.
“Geh rein!” I said. “Be quiet!”
Clyde’s whimpering stopped. But I could hear him on his paws, turning a tight figure eight outside the door.
“Good,” the man said.
I had him placed now. From the photos in his apartment. Max Udell, aka Sarge. The man who, back in Habbaniyah, had notified the Sir when Tucker’s unit found Resenko and Haifa dead in her house.
Sarge, who’d created a shrine to Iraq and been photographed with Malik and the CIA spook—the same dead spook who’d been hanging around in Sarge’s apartment for whatever reason the dead hang around. Sarge, the alcoholic whom Jeremy Kane had to roust out of bed most Sundays to get him to his job.
This man looked nothing like an alcoholic with an on-again, off-again girlfriend and a roach-infested apartment.
He looked like a machine.
A terminator.
The first rule in a hostage situation is to avoid aggravating your captor. I kept my eyes on him but said nothing, doing my best to look scared and compliant. It really wasn’t much of an act. My whole body felt as if I’d been dropped off a cliff, and an acetylene torch burned behind my breastbone.
Sarge backed off a couple of feet, but kept the gun trained on my right eye.
“My orders are to kill you,” he said. “You think of any reason why I shouldn’t?”
My body twitched and my eyes darted to my gun, hanging just out of reach.
“Next kick will put you out of your misery forever,” he said.
Sarge hadn’t been high on my suspect list. But now that I’d met him, the image of Elise, flayed like a sacrificial lamb, rose darkly in my mind.
I pushed the image away. If he simply wanted me dead, he would have already killed me. He was here for something more. I raised my hands, fingers spread in a conciliatory gesture.
“Max Udell, right? Sarge.” Remind him that we’re both Marines. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
He said nothing.
I drew a breath, winced at the pain, but kept my voice calm. “Sarge, let’s talk, okay? Whatever it is that’s on your mind, let’s talk about it.” My mind dredged up Tucker’s nickname for Jeremy Kane. “Jeezer’s worried about you.”
He barked a laugh. “You think I don’t know Jeezer’s worried? Hell, he’s the one gave me heads-up about you and all your questions.”
Thank you, Jeremy Kane. “I’m guessing he didn’t suggest you put a bullet in my brain.”
“My orders to kill you come from higher up.”
Panic later, I told myself. Panic kills. “Was it the Alpha?”
Another laugh. “The who?”
“The man who gave the order to cover up Resenko’s death in Habbaniyah. I call him the Alpha.”
“Like in a wolf pack.” Sarge nodded. “It works.”
“He have a name?”
“We’ll stick with Alpha.” Sarge pulled out a chair from the table and propped a booted foot on the seat.
“Look, I—what if I swear to you I’ll never bring up Habbaniyah again? And that I’ll never look for this Alpha? My bad for trying to dig up stuff that should stay buried. I get that. I’ll stop.”
He shook his head gravely. “The Alpha wants you taken care of.”
“Then why am I still breathing?”
“You are just a child, aren’t you?” He actually looked sad. “You are still alive, child, because the killing doesn’t come right away. There are some things we have to take care of first.”
My stomach lurched.
I am not here. I am far away. Nothing can touch me.
The smells of burnt plastic and charred flesh and the sick-sweet stench of rotten eggs filled my nostrils. Mortars whistled overhead. My body began to shake with adrenaline.
Not our day to die. Gonzo grinned at me as we lay side by side, holding our helmets tight against our sk
ulls. Not our day. Not yet.
“Truth is,” came a man’s deep voice over the wail of the mortars, “I don’t want to kill you. Got your whole life in front of you. Fellow Marine, gave a lot for your country. You got your grandmother to take care of. Your dog. But I got my orders.”
Panic kills, Gonzo said to me, his face black with soot.
I began to count, just like the therapist had taught me. One. Two. Three. Breathe. Four. Five. When I reached ten, the bombs fell silent. The kitchen clock tick-tocked. The furnace whooshed.
Gonzo was gone. In his place stood Sarge. In my home.
I groaned, and Sarge shook his head at me.
“If you cooperate, if you talk, it will go easier on you.”
“But you’ll still kill me.”
“I got my orders.”
“Then why should I talk at all?”
Sarge grabbed my arm, yanked it straight, and slammed the Colt into my elbow.
I screamed.
Clyde barked once, a sharp, angry sound, then fell silent again.
Sarge dropped my arm. “Feel like talking now?”
I cradled my elbow. “You’re no Marine.”
“War does funny things to all of us.” He studied me with something akin to pity. “One thing it does is make us want to live. Gives us that survival instinct. So think of it this way, Corporal Parnell. Every word that comes out of your mouth buys you a little more time on this filthy fuck-up of a world.”
A shiver rattled through me. I might have had moments of doubt before, dark moments since the war, but now I knew that I did not want to die. Not today. And definitely not on someone else’s terms. Buying time was all I had.
I said, “Tell me what you want.”
“Who else besides Jeezer have you talked to about Habbaniyah?”
“Just him and Tucker. That’s it.”
“What about that detective you’ve been hanging with?”
“That would be stupid. Going public with Habbaniyah would hurt me as much as anyone. I’m still in the reserves. I can still be court-martialed. I swear to you—”
“Then why did you go anywhere with it, girl? You remember all of us talking afterward? How we each took an oath that we’d never talk to anyone about what we’d done, not even to each other. How your CO said lives were at stake. You remember that? Yeah, you’re nodding now. So why the fuck did you show up at Jeezer’s house with all this talk about Iraq?”
Clyde had stopped pacing outside. His dog tags jingled as he moved away. I had never felt so alone.
“To protect him!” I said. Helpless rage bubbled in my voice. “I made a promise to Tucker that I would try to find Elise’s killer. I wanted to clear him, keep him from going to trial where the whole sorry story of Habbaniyah would come out. I was trying to help all of us. But in order to do that, I had to know if there really was any link between Elise’s death and Habbaniyah. I had to find out who Elise might have talked to.”
“The girl knew what happened in Iraq?”
“Some of it.”
His eyes went to lasers. “What’d you learn?”
“That she’d been pushing Tucker and Jeremy Kane to come clean. But I didn’t find any evidence she’d gone further with it. You’d be the next person she would have talked to, and if you’re here asking me about it, I’m guessing she never approached you.”
Sarge scratched his neck. “Fuck all. Then what did get her killed?”
“The police are still working the case. But Elise had also been working a little girl’s disappearance from ten years ago. Elise tangled with some violent skinheads over it. That’s probably what got her killed.”
“Butchered is what it said in the paper. That true?”
I nodded.
“I don’t know if it was skinheads who killed her, but I do know this. If she’d been killed over Iraq, it would have looked like an accident. Or suicide.”
I remembered the arterial spray in her room and knew Sarge was right. If I hadn’t been in such a panic after Tucker brought up Habbaniyah, maybe I would have realized that. Elise’s death said rage, not expediency.
Gonzo’s voice echoed in my skull. Panic kills.
The muzzle of the Colt moved from my right eye to my left and back, as if Sarge were trying to make up his mind which eye to use when he distributed my brain across kingdom come.
“Okay.” I forced myself to ignore the gun and look him straight in the eye. “It wasn’t you or your Alpha. Her death had nothing to do with Iraq. The police will find the skinhead who killed her and they’ll release Tucker, and that will be the end of it.”
He gave me a sad smile. “I’m here for the intel, girl. Then I gotta take care of you.”
That one threw me. Intel? “You bastard. What danger am I to anyone?”
“You know things from Iraq that you shouldn’t.”
Panic kills.
I summoned a look of contempt. “What intel do you think I have? I worked the morgue, for Christ’s sake.”
“But you spent your free time fucking a spy.”
“Dougie wasn’t a spy,” I said. “He was—”
“Hush.” Sarge dropped his foot from the chair and crouched so that he was eye level with me, the gun between us. He took my chin in his hand, squeezed hard. “Lying won’t get you anywhere. But coming clean will buy you a clean death. Answer my questions. Turn over whatever it was Ayers gave you, and I promise it will be quick. A single shot to the temple. Over before you know it.”
If I fought back now, if I screamed, would a neighbor hear and call the police? I sucked in air.
“Nuh-uh.” Sarge released my chin and pressed his finger to my lips. “Don’t.”
I released my breath. “No,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said. He stood and returned to the chair. “Where’s Malik?”
“What?” My brain fumbled. “Why are you asking me about Malik?”
Faster than I thought anyone could move, he was back in front of me. His backhand knocked my head into the wall.
“I’m asking the questions now. Now tell me—”
The scrape of Clyde’s claws on hardwood.
Sarge froze for a moment, looking confused.
It was a moment too long.
Clyde was already in the room. Sarge spun on his heel raising his gun as he turned.
“Fass!” I shouted.
Clyde leapt and grabbed Sarge’s upraised arm in his mouth, biting deep. Man and dog went down in a flurry of fur and flesh, tangled up in a chair that toppled over with them. The revolver hit the floor with a thud.
Sarge bellowed in pain.
Geh rein. Inside. It had taken Clyde a while to find the narrow window in the crawlspace that I always leave ajar, and probably longer still to worm his way into the house then get himself through the defunct heating duct and into the hallway. Clyde and I had only run this scenario a few times, a year or more ago. But he’d done it.
I got my feet under me and snatched up the Colt. I yanked out the cartridge, made sure the chamber was empty, and tossed it out of reach on top of the refrigerator. I grabbed my own gun. The one I knew I could trust.
Sarge was still hollering.
“Out!” I shouted to Clyde. “Aus.”
Clyde refused. He was in full-on devil mode.
“Aus!”
Clyde gave a final, reluctant shake of Sarge’s arm then released him and dropped to all fours. He didn’t back off.
“Get up,” I said to Sarge, who lay sprawled on his back. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked with blood. More blood spattered his chin and cheek. At the sight of his blood, something cold and primal descended, something dark and dank, as if I’d pulled on a filthy coat.
I’d worn it before.
Sarge didn’t move.
“Get the fuck up, Udell. Or I’ll sic the dog on your face.”
He rolled onto his side with a groan then got to his knees. He cradled his injured arm to his chest and gave Clyde a look of murderous fury.
“Pass auf,” I told Clyde. Guard. To Sarge I said, “Stand up against the wall.”
“Bitch,” he panted, still on his knees.
I grabbed my Sam Browne belt and pulled out three sets of cuffs.
“Get up, asshole.”
“Fucker tore the shit out of my arm.”
I kicked him in the ribs and knocked him flat, then kicked him again for good measure.
“Fucking cunt,” he said.
“Now.”
He grabbed a chair and tried to stand. As soon as he gained his knees and his head came up, I hit him with the gun. His left ear split open, spilling more blood. He bellowed with the pain and dropped back to the floor like the sack of shit he was.
“Try again,” I said.
“Stop,” he said. For the first time I heard a different note in his voice. Compliance.
Compliance wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was an excuse to kill him. The monster, demanding to be fed.
I kept the gun on him, telling myself I wouldn’t kill him. Telling myself we were both Marines, no matter how far he’d fallen. No matter that he’d intended my death. I warned myself to hold tight to the leash I kept around my rage and fear, for if I let go, something monstrous would emerge.
He found his knees. “You going to hit me again?”
“Knuffen,” I snapped at Clyde. Clyde growled.
“Against the wall now,” I said, “or I’ll put him on your throat.”
Sarge hawked blood onto the floor, but he dragged himself to his feet. I slammed him against the wall, punched him in the kidneys then pressed the Glock to the back of his neck.
“Hands behind your back.”
His muscles coiled for a response. I hit him with the gun again, smacking the same ear. He screamed. I shoved him against the wall and stepped back.
“Hands.”
He put his hands behind him, and I snapped the handcuffs on. I righted the chair and pushed it so it was a foot from the table.
“Sit,” I told him.
He sank into the seat, his hands pulled tightly behind him. I pulled duct tape out of a drawer and wrapped it around his ankles and knees.
“Feel sick,” he muttered. His face had taken on a chalky tone.
“You gonna throw up?” I asked.
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