Jackboot

by Will Van Allen

  She pushed him back down, refilled his milk, ignoring his groan.

  “By the way. We got another one.” She set an opened blue envelope next to his plate.

  It was postmarked North Carolina, no return address, just like the first. This one contained a similar Christian-themed Hallmark card inside, wishing peace and love, signed “God Bless” in girly pink writing.

  “It’s probably that girl in the picture with your brother,” his mom said.

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Well…find her. See what she wants. She obviously wants something.”

  He grunted. How was he to find a girl with no name out in North Carolina?

  She poured coffee, sat down across the table. She watched him eat and smiled.

  “What?” he asked, finally finishing his plate.

  “What about that redhead, the chatterbox? What was her name? She wasn’t that bad.”

  CHAPTER 25

  JULY

  Spokane, Washington

  Naked save his black running shorts, his sweat-soaked shirt tossed to the floor next to his sweaty socks and shoes, McConnell crunched ravenously as he spooned in Fruit Loop after Fruit Loop. Blinds closed, curtains drawn, the living room was a cave of cool after he and the dog had braved the heat for an eight-miler, diving into a two-hour nap on the sofa afterwards from which he emerged with a rumbling stomach the likes of which only Toucan Sam could cure.

  He was into his second bowl of sugary goodness when the front door rattled with insistent pounding. Geronimo jumped up and barked at the knob twisting furiously back and forth.

  This is it. Shit. I don’t even have a shirt on and I’m going to be on Cops. How fucking cliché.

  Cereal bowl in hand, ready for judgment day, he unbolted and swung the door wide to excessive heat, blaring bright light. Someone rushed him—

  No, she rushed by him. It was an extremely well-dressed Marissa Flynn.

  “It’s on CNN,” she said, snatching up the remote. “I texted you. Why won’t you return my damn texts?”

  Geronimo softened his bark to a happy yip of hello as McConnell stood mid-crunch.

  When he went down south to sight in the rifle he had left the dog in the care of Mrs. Davis. She had offered, and despite ulterior reason he had taken her up on it. Avoiding Marissa had become as regular a pastime as avoiding his daughter. Women’s equality, eat your heart out.

  Geronimo hadn’t taken to Mrs. Davis like he had Marissa. McConnell couldn’t fault him for that.

  He had never seen her dressed for work. At the funeral Marissa had been in mournful black but today, her shoulder-length, dark chocolate hair with its subtle highlights was slightly curled, framing her cheekbones perfectly. She wore a respectable cream blouse, top two buttons unabashedly undone, and a dark olive suede skirt revealing just enough toned, tan leg before disappearing into knee-high, sultry-black leather boots. And then there was that damn fragrance. Again.

  She caught him staring, gave him a look. “Hello?” Reluctantly he eyes followed her nod to the TV.

  An auburn-haired anchor was reporting on “BREAKING NEWS.” Above the scroll next to the fat red logo read “Portland, OR-LIVE.”

  “—in an alley, Ben?”

  Ben Santarro, in a blue shirt and dark tie matching the dark semicircles at his armpits still maintained priceless black hair. He was standing in front of Checker’s bar. “That’s right, Elena, the body was discovered this morning near Ray Street, about a half mile from the river. With the heat wave that’s settled over the Portland area we’ll have to await the coroner’s report for definitive cause of death but unofficial police sources are saying they believe the body has been here for several days if not a week. That would coincide with the time the family says he disappeared.”

  “Did they report him as missing?” Elena asked off camera.

  “That remains unclear. Mr. Odom was known to travel the globe at a moment’s notice both for business and pleasure. An official statement from the family is scheduled tomorrow morning, but one thing is for sure, this is a horrible tragedy for one of Portland’s most beloved families.”

  “Ben Santarro, live in Portland, Oregon. Once again, Alan Andrew Odom, grandson of renowned media mogul Andrew P. Odom has been found dead in downtown Portland. He was forty-one years old.” A picture of Odom smiling in a tuxedo flashed on the screen, the same one McConnell had stared at for months. “In other news, over seventy dead in Iraq today as a dozen bombs were detonated near the Green Zone…”

  Marissa muted the TV. She pivoted towards him, her mouth agape. “Can you believe it?”

  He could. He had watched news of bombings in Iraq twice a day for the last few years.

  “Can you believe that?”

  He could believe that, too. Seeing is believing, after all. He stalled, chewed, pretended to digest. He was relieved they had finally found the body. That he and Marissa might have this conversation one day was no surprise. That it was occurring while he was half-naked with Fruit Loops in his mouth was.

  “Hello? Earth to John?”

  “That’s—well. What is that?” he said vacuously.

  “It’s fucked up is what it is!” She fell onto the sofa between the cats. Geronimo came to sit at her feet. McConnell set the cereal bowl down on the coffee table, working out what to say.

  Fortunately, she had lots. “Do you know how many times I’ve wished that bastard dead? Prayed for it?” Tears welled in her eyes. He started to speak but she wasn’t finished. “I did. I prayed that God would kill him!” Her hand went to her mouth.

  “I’m pretty sure praying wasn’t what did him in.”

  “That’s not the point,” she mumbled from behind rose-quartz tipped fingers. “I don’t want to be that person.”

  “I think you’re entitled.”

  She shook her head.

  “What he did he would’ve done again.”

  “We have laws. Due process—”

  “And that served your sister so well. Eye for an eye, there’s your due process. Consider justice served.”

  She glared at him like he had revoked a woman’s right to vote.

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head. “My sister destroyed her case by doing what she did.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he said, heat in his voice.

  Her eyes blazed back open. “She gave up! She quit like she always did! We could have fought that bastard!”

  “Jesus Christ. You sound just like your mother. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like for her.”

  Her jaw dropped, snapped closed. She stood up and slapped him across the face. Her eyes, emerald bonfires, burned into him. “No, you’re right, I wasn’t there. Whose fault was that?”

  Geronimo gave him a critical woof and nudged the girl’s hand.

  She hadn’t held back. His face stung. “It’s what she wanted.”

  “She wasn’t thinking clearly. Neither were you.”

  “Hindsight’s wonderful, ain’t it?”

  “Why can’t you just say you’re sorry?” she asked, incredulous.

  “I don’t like that you’re in pain. I didn’t like that Anj was. But I like that the bastard that hurt her and you is dead. I’m glad he’s gone. World’s brighter for it and whether you believe that or not, want to worship the law that failed her, you shouldn’t feel guilty that someone killed him.”

  She opened her mouth to retort but dismissed it, tried again, didn’t like that one neither.

  They stood there glaring at one another. She was naturally fierce, like her sister. Vulnerability did not fit her as well as her skirt and blouse and boots. Her sophisticated fragrance coated his faculties with its sensual, velvet touch, and he stepped back towards the fireplace.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, even more vexed, as Belinda Carlisle uncannily swore that her lips were sealed from Marissa’s small purse.

&nb
sp; “My roommate likes to mess with my ringtones.” She fished out her cell.

  “Hello? I’m here, Momma. He’s here, we were just…no, everything’s fine. Until nine. Okay. Okay, see you then.” She hung up, took a deep breath, looked directly at McConnell. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Why won’t you reply to my texts?”

  “I don’t text.”

  She arched a delicate eyebrow. “You don’t…text?”

  He shook his head.

  She was dumbfounded. “John doesn’t say sorry. John doesn’t wear clothes. John doesn’t text.”

  Now that she mentioned it, he was mostly naked. This is why a man has a beard. You never feel naked with a beard. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Better?”

  “Much.” But her eyes said differently. She glanced down. “Fruit loops, huh?”

  “Problem with that?” Judging a man on his empathy was one thing. But his choice of cereal?

  She narrowed her eyes. Then she laughed. It was small but rich. She sobered, cleared her throat. “So what do we do now?”

  Hell if he knew.

  “I always win, you know?” she assured him. “You’re going to answer my questions, John.”

  “Why? What good would it do you?”

  “You owe me.”

  “Dinner? I’ll barbeque you a steak right now. Then we’re even.”

  “You wish.” She looked at her phone. “I’m late. Karla’s probably well into mid-conniption.”

  But she didn’t move. She just tried to stare him down. He had to admit, surrendering to this young woman wouldn’t have been a bad notion if she wasn’t Anj’s little sister.

  But she was. He gestured to the door.

  She rolled her eyes. At the door she spun and said, “Not so sure about that hair.”

  “Well at least we agree on something.”

  “Hmm. Well. It’s been…” She searched for the words. “Vraiment révéler.”

  Au revoir for him, a goodbye ruffle for the dog.

  He stood in the doorway lingering in her bouquet, his eyes following her to her blue Honda.

  Then he closed the door on all that heat.

  CHAPTER 26

  JULY

  Spokane, Washington

  All the wind sprints, weights and bag he could run, lift and punch had not assuaged his ill humor. It just left him spent; legs jelly, arms like over-stretched rubber bands. His brain was still chugging along though.

  Marissa had stopped texting him. Two days now, not an SMS peep. What he had wanted; a discernable silence all the same.

  He could call her. Should call his daughter. Or he could ring up Mrs. Davis, take her up on her enticing offer and screw life’s frustration out of the both of them.

  Instead he drank beer in the dark and played FreeCell on the deck. He hated FreeCell. All his years of installing, optimizing and configuring, he had played way too much goddamn FreeCell. Minesweeper? Jesus.

  Geronimo lay a few feet away, head on paw, eyes locked on John’s tapping foot, tensed to pounce should it break free and sprint off like a jackrabbit.

  Fuck it.

  He picked up his cell. She had put her number in there somewhere—

  The chat window blinked. His partner in crime finally online. He set the phone down, gave the hacker an earful, as much an earful as one can give through a messaging client.

  “Jesus, stop being such a crybaby,” Mitch typed back. “So they found the body. We knew they would. I’m monitoring Portland Homicide’s emails. They’ve got nothing.”

  A window popped up asking if he wanted to accept a file. He clicked yes.

  “Read. Come out tomorrow.” Mitch signed off.

  Great. Reading. Wasn’t exactly what he wanted to be doing but it was something.

  Elk, Washington

  “What the fuck?” McConnell said, approaching the porch.

  Mitch’s face soured as if he had downed half the pitcher of lemonade in his hand all in one gulp. He was wearing that eyesore of a robe over shorts and a T-shirt with Tux the Penguin looking smug above “No I Will Not Fix Your Computer Again.”

  “Jesus you’re grouchy in the morning. Don’t shoot the messenger. And you’re welcome.”

  “Venns, Visios and PowerPoints? We building out a datacenter or—”

  What? Plotting to avenge the dead? Plotting murder?

  “It’s complicated,” Mitch said. He held up the glass pitcher. “Lemonade? Crepes?”

  They sipped lemonade, ate crepes, watched the dogs roam the yard as Mitch uncomplicated it.

  The Defense Distribution Depot in San Joaquin, California, was the second largest of twenty-six defense depots in the nation and, since the Base Realignment and Closure proceedings in 1995, had taken in over 2,700,000 pieces of inventory from dismantled depots in Utah, California, Texas and Louisiana. PGW was the primary contractor running it and every other military depot in the US. They were also the primary provider for essential support services in Iraq and Afghanistan. Billions of contract dollars were at stake, the political and corporate relationships convoluted and corrupt. But that wasn’t the bad part.

  In March a convoy of body armor, MREs, gas masks and M-24s left the Tracy Facility in California for the Sharpe facility just down the road, ostensibly to be shipped to Balad Airbase in Iraq. Instead it was reloaded into Largo Freight trucks and later stamped approved as engine parts by Mexican customs in Tecate, Mexico. The body armor and guns were taken to Guaymas, then flown out to Cartagena; the rest of the cargo was destined for a rebel group in Venezuela. Money moved byte-wise between banks in Panama. Three million, six-hundred thousand dollars. Pennies to a drug cartel. Gear meant to protect American soldiers’ lives in Iraq was now protecting drug smuggling guerrillas in a Colombian jungle.

  The zip file, a journal really of the past few years with a few pictures thrown in, detailed other instances of misappropriated equipment, final destinations in Paraguay, Bolivia, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Georgia, the Ukraine, the Philippines, Nigeria, Somalia, Sudan. A cornucopia of weapons and equipment doled out like Halloween candy. The military diverting equipment intended for US troops to hotspots all over the world.

  “Not the military. A paramilitary,” Mitch corrected.

  It didn’t seem very American. Then again…And what did this have to do with the murder of his brother?

  There were noted deliveries (mostly old Soviet hardware by way of Israel and a couple former Bolshevik states) destined for Al Qaeda affiliates, Shia death squads and Iranian dissidents known as the MEK in Iraq.

  Sean was a marine in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Which is worse,” McConnell grunted.

  “How so?”

  “They just kill people.”

  “As opposed to the calculated murder we did?”

  “So we don’t know who killed my brother.”

  They were in the basement now so the hacker could go over his diagrams circle-by-circle, dot-by-dot.

  “Saying it a third time isn’t going to change my answer.”

  “You trust this source?”

  “I trust motives,” Mitch said. “And I verify a lot. What I could.”

  “So this is all about some guys out to make a buck?”

  “Selling out your compatriot for silver is nothing new.”

  McConnell frowned. “So this Pete Jackson.”

  “The only name mentioned. He’s real and he’s rotten to the core. Raking in cash while teenagers get blown to bits and burned alive.”

  “And you don’t think he knows who killed my brother?”

  “For the love of God.”

  Mitch was exasperated. McConnell was frustrated. Jackson might be the devil but there were lots of devils in the world. This wasn’t about them. This was about the bastard who killed Sean.

  “You still want to go to the press?” McConnell asked.

  “Yes, but it probably wouldn’t do us any good.
All we have is someone’s diary. No real evidence. And did you see that Venn overlap on big media?”

  He had. They were bought and paid. Maybe not as culpable as others in America’s wars but sitting on their hands didn’t make them any less dirty.

  Mitch pushed up his glasses. “Another option of course is to do nothing.”

  “I’m not very good at doing nothing.”

  “No, you’re not.” Mitch looked at him sideways. He debated with himself, sighed and stood. “Here’s another option. We have a cabal of big corporations and military running amuck in America. We don’t know much but what we do know checks out. We could say something, but to whom? Show our hand, the story might never see the light of day.” He let it hang there for effect. “Instead, we attack sideways. Pete Jackson didn’t murder your brother but he certainly was one of the coconspirators who had a hand in it. And I can connect him to six other deals that led to other soldier’s deaths.”

  McConnell wrapped his mind around that. Mitch paid no heed; he was on a roll.

  “It would be a statement without being a personal one. That would protect you. And me. But it would pique the journos’ interest. Make the Fourth Estate do their damn job. Capiche?” He conceded, “I know, not very satisfying in terms of your brother, but a proportional response nonetheless. No different than with Odom. He didn’t literally murder Angela in that bathtub—”

  “He raped her—”

  “Hear me out. Yes, he did, and he got away with it, and that was what killed her in the end.” The hacker sat back down. “He deserved his fate, I’m not arguing that, but let’s not forget your pretense of robbery in that fate. You had to do it that way, I’m not arguing that, either. What I’m saying is it doesn’t really matter how it was meted out so much that justice was. I would argue the same holds true for your brother.”

  McConnell leaned back in his chair and pondered that. He glanced up at the muted TV as a massive head with a bushy, gray beard and eyes dark as obsidian floated above the bold yellow caption “COULD HE GO FREE?”

  “Unmute that, will you?”