Blood on the Tracks (Sydney Rose Parnell Series Book 1)

by Barbara Nickless

  He glared at me through his right eye. The other was swelling shut.

  I braced my feet and leveraged the chair back against the table so that he was tilted at a twenty-degree angle. “You puke, you’ll choke on it.”

  He rocked in the chair, trying to right it. I placed the muzzle of my gun against his temple.

  “You want the dog in your lap?”

  The steel was molten in his eyes now.

  But he’d started this shit.

  “The Alpha sent you here. Who is he?”

  He gave me a stony face.

  I put an elbow hard into Sarge’s jaw. The chair teetered. “Who sent you?”

  Silence.

  I lifted my arm to hit him again, but his voice stopped me.

  “I don’t know.”

  I followed through on the blow. His head whipped back then rolled forward.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Goddamn it! I don’t know. I’ve never met him. I work with some man calls himself Kevin. No last name. He sets up a meet and gives me the Alpha’s orders.”

  “Kevin No-Last-Name. He works for the Alpha?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re more like peers. Kevin is CIA.”

  “What the fuck is the CIA doing involved in this?”

  “They’re looking for the boy. And something else. I don’t know what, exactly.”

  I stroked his cheek with the Glock. “You can do better.”

  “No! All I know is it has to do with something they started in Iraq, and Doug Ayers had some piece of the puzzle. It was a joint operation between military intelligence and the CIA. And some other group. A private contractor, from what I understand.”

  “Joint operation to do what?”

  “Save the free world, Parnell. Jesus Christ. I don’t know. Swear to God. It’s a hundred levels higher than my pay grade. All I know is that the op went wrong. Was supposed to stay over there, in Iraq. But it spilled out over here.”

  “So where exactly do you enter the picture? A Marine sergeant working for the CIA?”

  “Richard Dalton pulled me in. While we were still in Iraq.”

  “Dalton is the CIA guy in the photos on your wall?”

  “Yeah. He was the one told me to hide what happened with Resenko and the Iraqi chick. When that went down like it was supposed to, he told me they’d need guys like me to track jihadists here in the States.”

  “Dalton is the one who gave the order? After he got the word from the Alpha, I’m guessing?”

  “That’s how I figure it.”

  “Why would the CIA be giving orders about a military matter?”

  Sarge gave me a look that had “stupid” written all over it.

  “Never mind that,” I said. “Who killed him?”

  “What?” Sarge looked genuinely bewildered. “Dalton ain’t dead. He’s still in that desert shit hole the rest of us left behind.”

  Interesting. So maybe I hadn’t pulled up the memory of a corpse. Maybe I’d just taken a man I’d seen around the FOB and—in my rattled memory—mixed him up with the dead. Or maybe I really had seen him dead, and Hal and the Alpha hadn’t gotten the word. “Why are they trying to find Malik? What could either the CIA or the Alpha care about an Iraqi orphan?”

  “Nobody filled me in. But I’m thinking they wanted that kid for the op that went south. Maybe using him as a spy. That’s as much as I know.”

  The slow burn deepened to reach bone. “The CIA is using a twelve-year-old as a spy? Do you know what al-Qaeda does to spies?”

  “It’s war, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “What makes you think Malik would be here? Or that I’d have anything to do with him?”

  “We know how close you were to the boy. He was brought to the States, I don’t know when. Then, after those seven CIA agents were blown up in Khost—you remember that?”

  I nodded. A Jordanian doctor named al-Balawi had pretended to be willing to spy against the jihadis for the Americans. Instead, he’d triggered a suicide vest and blown himself up along with the CIA officers, a Jordanian intelligence officer, and an Afghan working for the CIA.

  “After that,” Sarge went on, “using the boy became critical—losing al-Balawi meant we didn’t have anyone on the inside. But then Malik went missing. We figured he’d show up on your doorstep.”

  “You sons of bitches.”

  “War, Parnell. War.”

  “Fuck you.”

  When I hit him again, it was really more of a love tap. Inside, my heart was almost singing. Malik was alive. And he’d made it to the States after all.

  Sarge regarded me through swollen eyes. “You gonna kill me?”

  “Depends. Tell me about Doug Ayers. What is it the CIA thinks he gave me?”

  “I told you. Kevin wasn’t too specific on that. I got the sense he was fishing. Like he doesn’t really know.”

  “Is it Kevin who wants it? Or the Alpha?”

  “Both, far as I know.”

  “If I let you live—and that’s a big if—you tell those sons of bitches that Dougie gave me nothing. You understand? Nothing. No papers. No pictures. Not so much as an STD. Nothing.”

  To my horror, I was crying. With rage and with hatred and with the fact that what Dougie and I had once shared was reduced to this.

  With Dougie gone, all I’d wanted when I came home was quiet. Clyde and me working together, trying to heal. Working the trains was a bonus. A way to flee into wide, empty spaces and feel in touch with my long-gone father.

  It was all I’d wanted. And now this.

  Nik was right. What happened in Iraq should damn well stay there.

  “What does Kevin look like?”

  “White guy. Over six foot, maybe two-twenty. Early forties. Soft looking. Dresses in nylon pants and polar fleece. Like he works for one of those fancy-gear outfitters.”

  “How does he arrange a meet?”

  “Sends an email with the date and time and location.”

  I had Sarge give me the email address, and I jotted it down.

  “What does all of this—Malik and Doug Ayers and this special operation—have to do with Habbaniyah?”

  “Nothing. Habbaniyah isn’t Kevin’s deal. The Alpha’s just cleaning house.”

  “Then tell me, Udell. Does the Alpha think he can kill everyone involved in Habbaniyah? Me? Tucker? Tucker’s squad? Anyone else in the platoon who might have figured it out? Does he plan to kill everyone?”

  “You’re the only lucky one. Because you had to get nosy and start asking questions. The others are too smart to talk. They got too much to lose.”

  “And I don’t? Where’d he get that idea?”

  “I think he just needs me to explain it to him.”

  “What I’m wondering is if you could explain things better alive, or as a corpse?”

  “You kill me, it’s just gonna piss him off.”

  “So then he’s going to, what, order me tortured and killed? How much worse can I make it for myself?”

  “You kill me, you’ll spend every minute looking over your shoulder for the next guy. Only you won’t know what he looks like. And there’s the cop, too, don’t forget. The Alpha’s got his eye on him.”

  A chill settled at the base of my spine. “I already told you, Cohen doesn’t know anything.”

  “Who’s going to convince your Alpha of that if you kill me? You kill me, you got no way to get to the Alpha. No way to communicate.”

  “But I do. I have Kevin’s email address.”

  “Kevin won’t respond. He won’t care. Habbaniyah’s got nothing to do with him so long as the Alpha keeps the sandbox clean. He sure as shit won’t pass on a message to the Alpha.”

  “Oh, I think he would.”

  “Plus you gotta figure if you kill me, the next guy who comes knocking on your door won’t be as nice.”

  “Because you’re such a fucking prince,” I snarled.

  But Sarge was right about a lot of things. I had no way of knowing if the
email address he’d given me was valid. And no other way to get to the Alpha, to warn him off. Most importantly, I now had Max Udell in my sights. The enemy you know is less dangerous than the one you don’t.

  “I let you go, you’d better sing to your boss like you’ve never sung before. You understand me? Because if something happens to that cop or my Grams or my dog or anyone else I care about, I swear to you I will cut off your balls and stuff them down your throat. And that’s before I get really mad. Am I making myself clear?”

  He nodded.

  I reached over and brought down the front of his chair, then knelt so we were eye-to-eye.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s the deal.”

  I watched Sarge make his way down the street through the snowfall, his dark figure disappearing and reappearing in the pools of light cast by the streetlamps. He moved with an upright bearing despite the beating Clyde and I had given him.

  Maybe he really was a machine.

  After I’d laid out exactly what Sarge was going to do for me—convince the Alpha to back off, convince Kevin I had nothing from Dougie—I promised I would drop the whole Habbaniyah affair and do everything in my power to steer the Denver detectives toward the skinheads. I didn’t even have to cross my fingers while I said all this. Lying to a verifiable asshole doesn’t count against you.

  He’d asked if he could have his gun back, and I’d laughed.

  Sarge turned the corner and disappeared. Maybe he’d circle back around with a different weapon and shoot me. But I didn’t think so. Not while he thought I still had something he wanted. He’d talk to Kevin. Get his orders.

  This bought me a little time.

  I closed and locked the door and, as my knees buckled, I pressed against the wall to keep from falling. Hunched, every part of me in pain—my knees, my ribs, my back, my head, my elbow, and most especially my chest—I made my glacial way with Clyde to the kitchen where I grabbed Sarge’s Colt, then through the doorway into the dining room. I eased to the floor in front of the liquor cabinet. Grams had poured out or given away the obvious alcohol, but a bottle labeled bitters held Jameson. I dragged myself into a chair and sat at the table with Sarge’s gun and mine next to me. I poured myself a stiff drink, downed it. Poured another.

  I had no fucking idea what to do.

  With the whiskey warm in my belly, I leaned back and folded my arms as the shakes rattled through me. When I couldn’t sit up any longer, I slid to the floor and pulled Dougie’s ring free of my shirt, holding it tight. Clyde came and pressed next to me, licking my face over and over.

  “I owe you one, buddy. I owe you big.”

  I wrapped my arms around him and wept.

  CHAPTER 21

  The body of a Marine who dies in Iraq arrives at Mortuary Affairs in a black human remains pouch. The Marine’s body is placed on the concrete floor, and then one of our crew uses a metal detector to check for shrapnel.

  We take turns using the metal detector. Because it isn’t just shrapnel we’re looking for.

  It’s unexploded bombs.

  —Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

  Cohen called before I was ready for the world again. I let it go to voicemail, but waited only a few minutes before I picked up my phone and listened to the message. I wanted to hear his voice.

  “Call me soon as you can,” he said quietly. “It’s about Rhodes. You’ll want to know.”

  I stared out the window to the gentle fall of snow glimmering in the back porch light. Beyond the halo of yellow, the trees shivered in a quick flick of wind, a nervous gathering of ghosts.

  I tossed back the last of the whiskey and punched Talk.

  “Parnell,” Cohen said.

  At the concern in his voice, I had to shove down the words I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to betray your trust. I didn’t mean to betray you.

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  “He confessed. An hour ago. I typed up his statement, and he’s signed it. The DA’s office offered him a plea bargain—life in prison without the possibility of parole. With the death penalty on the table if his case went to trial, he took it.”

  My mouth worked, but I could not find air.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you didn’t want this.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “Parnell, let it go.”

  “Who came to see him?”

  “Nobody.” A pause. “If you think someone out there has the power to make our boy confess to something he didn’t do, you’d better tell me what the hell is going on.”

  A movement beyond the doorway startled me into dropping the phone. Elise, shimmering in the kitchen.

  Then gone.

  “Parnell? You there?”

  I picked up the phone, the movement making my chest explode all over again. “I don’t believe it. He just—he’s not a killer. Not like that.”

  “You’re a good cop,” Cohen said. “Don’t confuse what you want with the facts on the table.”

  “A good cop doesn’t make assumptions.”

  “I wouldn’t call a confession an assumption. The ME has connected all the dots. The blood on his uniform is hers. The wounds were likely inflicted by a KA-BAR combat knife. The kind—”

  “Issued to every Marine. You can buy them online, too. So the knife you found at the 7-Eleven wasn’t the murder weapon?”

  “No,” Cohen admitted.

  I roused a little. “This is bullshit. You were the one who said you didn’t like the crime scene. That it was too convenient.”

  “That was before he confessed. Bandoni’s list, Parnell. The blood on his uniform. The video of him at the convenience store. Multiple witnesses place him at or near her home around the time of her death. No sign of a struggle and no evidence of a break-in, meaning she let her killer into her apartment in the middle of the night. That says to me it was someone she trusted.”

  “Or that the killer used the key under her mat.”

  “The alleged key under her mat.”

  “Rhodes never denied being there. That doesn’t make him her killer. What about his stolen hobo beads? What about Alfred Merkel?”

  “Merkel will have his own day in court,” Cohen said. “But not for Elise’s death. Rhodes now says he made up the story about his beads being stolen.”

  “He made up this story before he got to Denver? All the way back when he talked to Roald Hoffreider?”

  “It just makes it—”

  “I know.” Weight settled. “Premeditated. I still don’t believe it.”

  “And we have the confession.” Cohen talked as if he had Weight, too. “We’re still waiting on trace, and if that comes back with something different, I’ll have another go at it. But right now we don’t have anything that points to anyone but Rhodes. You were going to find me something else, remember?”

  “What about fingerprints? You checked those glasses of milk?”

  “No hits on any of the prints. The only ones we could match were Elise’s.”

  I gave that some thought.

  “It gets worse,” Cohen said.

  I waited.

  “She was drugged. Enough oxycodone in her system to turn her into Sleeping Beauty. We found an empty bottle in Rhodes’s rucksack. Tests show positive for oxycodone. So that, along with his story to Hoffreider, moves it from a crime of passion to premeditated.”

  “Rhodes is in constant pain. Of course he’d have something.” I looked through the doorway to the pill bottle on the counter. “Everyone has something.”

  “Short of capturing it on video,” Cohen went on, “things are about as clear-cut as they get. Unless trace puts someone else there at the time of her death.” He paused as if waiting. When I said nothing, he went on. “Or unless you know some reason why Rhodes would give up his life for Merkel. What he said to me was, and I quote, ‘Elise told me I need to come clean. So I am.’”

  The weight in my chest grew until I felt my heart would plummet to my feet. I still did not believe Tucker had kill
ed his Beauty. But a grand jury would look at the evidence and indict him. If he persisted in his claim of guilt and entered a guilty plea to the court, the judge would decide his sentence—minus the death penalty—and there would be no trial. No trial, no Habbaniyah.

  Maybe he’d decided to sacrifice his life and honor for his fellow Marines.

  Isn’t that what you want, Parnell? said my survivor voice. With Tucker guilty, you can walk away. You and Gentry.

  “Fuck all,” I said.

  We were silent for a moment, listening to each other breathe. I wanted to get up and find some cigarettes, but it hurt too much to move. I kept thinking of the photos I’d taken. Something continued to nag at me, just as it had at the Black Egg. But every time I tried to chase it down, whatever I sought vanished like smoke.

  “And nothing on Melody or Liz?”

  “We’re looking. Nothing so far.”

  “Fuck all,” I said again.

  “Yeah.” Cohen cleared his throat. “About last night. About us, I mean.”

  I closed my eyes against the tears, but they spilled out anyway. “Don’t read anything into last night, okay? One cop helping another.”

  “Don’t do that, Parnell. It was more than that.”

  It had been. But there was nothing I could do with that. “We wouldn’t be any good together.”

  Another long silence. I gripped the phone like a lifeline.

  “Fuck all. You’re probably right,” Cohen said and hung up.

  I sat in the chair, staring at nothing, the phone dead in my hand.

  Some part of me warned, Get out of here. Sarge’ll come back. And this time he’ll kill you.

  But still I sat.

  After a while, Clyde stood and nudged me until he—and the thought of Liz Weber out there somewhere—got me to my feet. I hobbled into the kitchen and grabbed the pain pills from the Laramie EMTs. I downed three and stuffed the bottle in my pants pocket.

  Moving like a ninety-year-old, I tossed clothes and toiletries in a bag along with my camera. I placed Clyde’s bowls and food into another bag. I watered Grams’s plants, put a hold on the newspaper, and set the living room light on a timer. Just as if I were a normal person with a normal life, going away for a few days.

  In the kitchen, I mopped up Sarge’s blood and the worst of the mess that had spilled out of the refrigerator, tossing the dirty water in the backyard.