She had to be at the clinic by noon. Much-welcomed purpose washed over her.
Gonzaga University Legal Assistance dealt primarily with Medicare and Social Security issues, dabbling in labor law disputes. As a third-year volunteer she had attained a level of notorious seniority. No one lasted longer at the free law clinic than a year, two at max. Worse, Professor Lamont was attempting to lure her into staying after graduation with the glorious promise of two hundred bucks a week, selling her on the priceless, altruistic rewards which she would soon forget all about once she started her career as a hired gun for a big firm.
Whenever that happened.
Fifty resumes later GULA was the only one knocking on her door. There were too many law students clamoring for far too few jobs. Unless you wanted to work as a public defender and burn out before you were thirty. Between her pittance from the clinic and her abysmal wages toiling at the mall she was getting by, if just barely. Karla reminded her that they could probably make more money at the new Hooters off the interstate. Tempting, but working in too-short shorts and a too-tight top for tips with a law degree was just too damn cliché.
Something would come along. Eventually. Hopefully.
She did like the clinic. It was a public good and they had won some worthwhile battles. Maybe Anj was right. Maybe being a hotshot lawyer in her tight Ally McBeal Burberry miniskirt and silk Dolce blouse wasn’t her dream but her mother’s all along.
I hear you, sis. Mieux vaut tard que jamais, non?
But she did look damn fine in a miniskirt.
She took a final walk through the McConnell Manor. Clean for a bachelor, kept and orderly if rather bare of the items that made a house a home. She lingered at the portraits lining the pink hallway, in particular the one with John and who she assumed were his daughter and ex-wife. Father and daughter shared such serious eyes. He was considerably thinner then, unlike Anj’s funeral where a good-looking man lurked beneath the weight and that atrocious beard. The platinum-haired, icy-eyed wife didn’t quite compliment the other two. Marissa wondered how it had all gone wrong.
John McConnell’s house—the place where pink dreams go to die…
She spied a quick peek into John’s plain bedroom. She willed herself away. She wasn’t the snooping kind but her sister had loved this man. It had been him she had turned to in her most terrible hour of need. Why? What made John so special and deserving of her confidence? Was it the strength with which he carried himself? The earnest eyes and the large hands? Was it all physicality in the end that Anj had needed, a large, devoted man to ward off the small, cowardly brute who had raped her?
She sniffed, squeezed her eyes shut. It was time to go.
She scratched each feline’s head, peered hard into their chartreuse orbs, sought out her sister, wishing for just one brief, magical Disney moment…but all she found were mild gazes of disinterest.
She wiped at her own eyes one final time.
“Au revoir, bonne chats. It’s been real.”
She left the house that longed to be more, entering the furnace of early summer, pulling the door firmly closed behind her.
CHAPTER 11
JUNE
Spokane, Washington
The meet-cute between dog and bastard cats had been unexpectedly non-eventful. Obstinate until the end the bastard cats held their ground on the arms of the sofa. The dog, wisely distrustful of the felines, took to lying a good dozen feet away in case of the need for a quick getaway. Those bastard cuts were cunning.
It was true that McConnell men had always worked, that he had earned a wage since he was fourteen, so it was a surprise when he discovered not having a job disconcertingly tranquil. Still, he was no shirker and, like at his grandpa’s, he found solace in the doing of things.
He repainted, recaulked, resealed whatever needed painting, caulking, sealing. Cleaned out the garage, washed the truck, washed the jilted boat that had not felt the kiss of waves against its bow in years. Rearranged the living room, rearranged it again, then rearranged it back to its original placement because, damn it, Carrie had been right about the damn room all along. He mowed, weeded, seeded the yard, the front a small exercise, the back a herculean task. He recalibrated the sprinkler system. Cleaned the gutters, de-mossed the roof, power-washed the house and driveway.
In the evenings he took the dog down to the river or out behind the house, walking the trails where life was just starting to return after the decade-old fire. He hadn’t been out there in years. He considered the hill that led up to the cemetery and the sports fields but he wasn’t scrambling up that daunting grade. Geronimo sprinted up and down it, a bolt of speed shaking the honeysuckle and wild aster. Show-off.
McConnell did the things he wanted but not the ones he didn’t.
He didn’t watch the news anymore. There was no cause for it, his brother was no longer in harm’s way. He didn’t pursue the Pentagon for answers to his brother’s death; their hollow patriotic jingoism was neither refreshing nor inspiring. He didn’t meet with Father DeCaro though both the priest and his mom had beseeched him to do so. And he didn’t call Marissa despite her pleading texts. He had no good words for her, either. Death was disquieting, and his life had become quiet.
But even he could know too much quiet.
One day, no chores on the horizon, he decided to walk down to Doyle’s Diner. It was midmorning and quite the field day for the heat; the streets shimmered in wavy premonition. A sheen of sweat was thick across his brow as he reached the doors, one opening and spilling Father DeCaro.
The balding priest sized him up. “John.”
“Father D.”
The priest nodded sagely, donned a baseball cap and carried on into the sun.
McConnell did likewise inside, the cool relief of AC hitting him like a welcoming wallop as he entered the familiar comforts of the converted old railcar.
“Good Lord! Look what the cat dragged in!” Rosie came around the counter, a hand on a huge hip. “Come on now! Give a fat woman a hug!”
She nearly squeezed the life out of him. She gestured to a booth, handing him a menu, offered the obligatory kind words for his brother, so sad, such a sweet boy, how’s your momma taking it?
“You give her a big ol’ hug from me next time you see her.”
He had missed Rosie. One of those rare folk who never had a bad day. Her indomitable perk might not be contagious but it was damn hard to deny. “Coffee, sugar?” She winked.
Rosie’s girth made its way down the aisle. The bank of booths along the windows and the stools at the counter were mostly empty.
“It’s the heat, hon,’” she said returning and pouring the coffee. “So what’ll it be? The usual?”
The usual was bacon breakfast with biscuits and gravy, over-medium eggs, hash browns, bit more gravy on top. Not the Slim-Fast shake.
She hung his ticket and busied about marrying ketchup bottles.
He took a drink of scalding hot coffee, reached over to the counter, grabbed up an abandoned copy of The Spokesman-Review.
Housing market still dropping like a lead weight. The Spokane Indians earned eight runs in the ninth of the second game to win a double-header. A new school bond being tossed around, fuel prices climbing again, another cluster of meth labs raided down in Felony Flats. Nothing surprising—
“Didn’t know you knew how to read, McConnell.”
He glanced up. A navy blue suit with slim tie and a smug smile had roosted on one of the stools across the way.
“Fuck off.” He returned to his paper.
“Whoa. Where’s the love? The respect? We don’t say ‘fuck off’ to the police now, do we?” Scott Boucher ran a hand through his slicked-back blond hair, grinned. “Just wanted to give my condolences.”
“You love on any teenage boys, lately?”
Boucher’s grin dropped. “You should let those asleep dogs lie. Might up and bite you, tear you a new asshole. Make your brother look like a fuckin’ picnic.”
McC
onnell ignored him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a heavy fellow in a cheap brown suit making his way from the cash register over to their unpleasant conversation. Rosie was coming up right behind him.
“You boys best not stir up no trouble in here!”
“Calm down, Rosie. We’re all friends.” Boucher raised his hands in apologetic innocence. “Just rappin’ with Johnny-boy here.” That cold grin had returned. “Lost his brother in Iraq a few weeks ago. You remember him? Sean McConnell.”
The name rang a bell with brown suit.
“Fuck you,” McConnell reiterated for good measure, eyes still on the sports section.
“Watch your mouth,” brown suit said.
“Fuck you, too.”
“Johnny!” Rosie exclaimed.
“Relax, Rosie.” Boucher slapped his hand down on the table. “Sean was always stupid and froggy too, but he learned his lesson. McConnell boys always do.”
McConnell rose from the booth and with him a barely contained fury. Boucher was about the same height, his partner short and wide. Both tensed but neither made a move.
“Best sit back down,” brown suit warned.
“Best get out of my face, tubby.”
“You wanna be arrested, McConnell?” Boucher had a pair of eager, shiny handcuffs already in hand. “Cuz I’m more than willing to oblige and cuff you right here.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re rearing to cuff any boy you can get your hands on. Just remember—I ain’t no boy.”
“Alright, you want it you got it. Turn around!” Boucher commanded, spittle flying.
The coffee cup was within reach, it would give him an edge, he could—
“Knock that crap off! RIGHT NOW!”
All three men looked to the rear of the railcar. Rosie stood next to a tan and green sheriff’s uniform staring hard their way, another sliding out of the booth.
“This don’t concern you, Anders,” Boucher snapped. “This is city business!”
“City’s in the county. Meaning it concerns me and is my business.”
Boucher’s face was now a blotchy, livid turnip. He weighed his options.
“Get it outta park,” barked the deputy.
“Better watch yourself,” Boucher told him.
The burly cop smiled broad beneath his moustache. He placed his hands on his hips.
Boucher leaned into McConnell’s space. “I’ll be lookin’ for you, lardass.”
“Good. Won’t be cruising the playgrounds then.”
Boucher boiled out of there, his partner at his heels.
“God almighty!” Rosie gasped, fanning herself behind the counter. “You boys! You boys!”
McConnell breathed. “Sorry, Rosie.” He leaned down and looked across the pass-shelf. “Sorry, Dobb.” The old cook just shrugged, waved his spatula. Day in the life of River City. No blood no foul.
The sheriff’s deputies made their way over as John sat down and picked up his paper. It shook in hands that raged to do something.
“You aching to see the inside of a jail cell?”
He ignored that patently rhetorical question.
“Go on ahead.” Anders nodded to his partner. Kid looked green, full of good deeds and optimism. That would change.
“I get you’re hurtin,’ McConnell. But what the hell you thinkin’?” The cop slid into the seat opposite.
“Thinking of getting some breakfast. What the hell you thinking?”
“Quit being an asshole. You can’t start shit with that prick anymore. Made detective, and he’s got a lot of friends in blue. You wanna end up like your brother? Like Otto?”
Otto Zehm. He’d known him since grade school. A year ago he took a beating from six of Spokane’s finest for minding his own business at the Zip-Trip. Beat the shit out of him, like they had John’s own brother some years before. Only Zehm had been beaten to death.
“Couldn’t stop that one either, eh?”
Anders scowled. “I know this bad blood between Boucher and you started long before the business with your brother. You wanna enlighten me?”
He levered out of the booth, dropped a twenty on the table.
“McConnell—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re really sorry for my loss, I know.” He waved at Rosie. “Sorry again, Rosie. Left you something for the trouble.”
“You don’ hafta do that, sweetie.”
“But I do.”
CHAPTER 12
JUNE
Spokane, Washington
The long walk back was marked with furious strides and fiery curses that left his shirt soaked and his head feeling thick from the heat.
First thing he did was grab the bottle and tumbler off the kitchen counter. Second thing was throw his shirt in the laundry room, where he stood in the dark with his hands on the cool metal of the washer until the heat and anger started to dissipate. He wasn’t looking for answers, a futile exercise that led to mission creep of trying to make sense of things. He was just trying to do things. Yet here everybody was, dredging up the past. He snatched up the bottle, twisted off the cap and was about to start knocking it back when there was a knock at the door.
Anders. Or worse. Boucher had decided to carry on their conversation. Come to think of it, he welcomed finalizing that discussion.
He returned the bottle to the kitchen, drew on a clean shirt and swung the front door open wide.
No cop. Just a skinny redheaded kid in jeans and a blue button-up standing on the stoop. Selling Jesus in the heat dressed like that. “Yeah?”
“Mr. McConnell?” the kid asked through the screen. He was maybe twenty, though hard to tell with the dark circles underneath his eyes.
“Look, if you got that book of Mormon hidden somewhere—”
The kid attempted a smile but it faltered. He was struggling to make his pitch.
“Well, hell. Go ahead then,” McConnell sighed, feeling sorry for him.
Nodding thankfully, he swallowed and started again. “Not selling Jesus, sir. I’m Lance Corporal Nicholas Nielsen?” He said his name as if it meant something. It didn’t. “I served with your brother, in Iraq?” He looked at his feet. “I was there when he died. When he was killed, sir.”
Well. This was a surprise. Some might think it was a welcome one but those would be wrong. To reiterate, contemporary John McConnell was into the doing of things, not the knowing of things side of business. Why was this so difficult for people to understand?
Alas, his parents had instilled some manners that stuck. He invited the kid inside.
The kid waved at a Toyota down the street and whoever was in the driver’s seat waved back.
John gestured towards the Morning Bark and Decaf Mocha sofa and loveseat. He knew they were Morning Bark and Decaf Mocha because Carrie had made him choose between those or Summer Wheat and Franjipan. The next day he had looked into finding a fight club.
“Something cold? Got iced tea or beer,” he offered.
“Tea, sir. Please. Thank you, sir.”
“John’s fine.”
The kid took the tea with nervous hands as he sat between the cats on the sofa. McConnell drank deep of his own tea on the loveseat, ignoring the bastard cats who were working hard at ignoring him. Geronimo, after a sniff of the weepy-eyed marine, took up his position on the cool floor before the slider in the dining room.
Nielsen sipped at his tea. The air hummed. McConnell waited. Nielsen squeezed his eyes shut. McConnell waited some more. Finally, “So. You said you were there?”
“Sir?”
“The day my brother was killed. I’d be interested in hearing about that.” He was interested. He just wasn’t ready.
Nielsen’s eyes flashed open like his ears registered gunfire then found sanctuary staring into the lifeless fireplace as he set his glass on the coffee table.
“Yes sir. I was there. Your brother…he died because of me, sir,” he croaked.
That was unexpected. McConnell set his iced tea down. “So you’re here to tell me abo
ut it.”
The kid nodded, sucked in a draft of air, and then he told him about it.
Nielsen had been in country for all of seventy-two hours. There had been the dust, the heat, booms that rattled walls on the base from IEDs out in town during the day, the mortar attacks at night, the fear that had twisted his gut into knots. It was that fear that had taken over once the bullets were flying. Bloated bodies in the streets, the stink of death and shit everywhere, he had to run away, his heart pounding, his head throbbing with the gunfire, eyes trying to squeeze shut the screams. He didn’t know how he got there but he had taken refuge on a roof and hid like a coward, probably would have died there if someone hadn’t found him. Gunnery Sergeant Sean McConnell had saved his life. And then someone had shot his savior dead.
“They tried to stop the bleeding…it was bad. He was shot in the leg, the stomach and chest…his lungs, he…it wasn’t that long, he didn’t suffer. I swear.”
The marine set the glass down and clasped his hands in his lap, his head down.
McConnell let out a deep breath. This wasn’t outside of the imaginable scenario scope. Good men died in war. It was its very nature.
“Well. I hope you got the bastards who shot him. Were they insurgents?”
Nielsen gave him a puzzled look, then something dawned. “No. No sir—”
“You didn’t get them?” McConnell asked disappointed. “Well—”
“No sir. It wasn’t insurgents. It wasn’t Hajis at all.”
It was McConnell’s turn to be confused. “I’m not following. Are you saying it was friendly fire?”
“No sir.” Nielsen’s eyes darted around the room as if looking for spies. Or cameras. Or microphones.
McConnell waited. He was very patient when he needed to be. Growing up hunting like it was a religion did that to a man. But Nielsen wasn’t coming out of the brush on his own.
“Who killed him then?” McConnell finally asked.
“He heard a noise, I think I heard it too, and he went to investigate. From the roof, down on the street.”
“Who?”
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