Jackboot

by Will Van Allen

  He sniffed. What was that?

  He sniffed again and his stomach violently rumbled. Following his nose, he heard music, his mouth watering from the enticing aroma exuding from the kitchen: roasted garlic, basil, oregano, rosemary. Was Mitch in there cooking? The hacker must have been worried about him, panicked when he hadn’t heard anything and finally braved—

  Nope. That definitely wasn’t Mitch.

  Had she been wearing the short, powder-blue shorts and aqua-white striped tank top before? Her bare feet sashayed the tile, ruby toenails dancing between counter, sink and stove. Oblivious to his observation she bent over, shorts riding up in a delectable tease, then squatted, this too most admirably. Rifling through pots and pans in the cupboard, rising elegantly, up, up on tiptoes, his eyes followed her long stems curving into athletic hips, ascended the camber of her back to the fall and bounce of a pert ponytail that yearned to be pulled. She turned and his eyes lingered where the blue fabric disappeared between her thighs before running up her flat stomach, along the swells of her breasts, to caress her slender neck, brush against the pursed petals of her mouth only to be slain, drawn and quartered by her fiercely articulate emerald orbs as they drew him down. She arched a perfect eyebrow.

  He looked away sheepishly to the sliced vegetables, the boiling pasta, simmering sauce, the open bottle of wine. “I take it we’re having dinner.”

  She proceeded to chop and ignore him, then pointed above her with the chef’s knife.

  “Strainer.”

  He hobbled over, reached up and handed it to her.

  “Your wife left quite the kitchen.”

  He grunted.

  She picked up a glass of red wine, swirled and sipped, staring at him over the rim. “I can’t keep up with the hair. Is there a shiny red sports car in your future? Or does the used-up neighborhood skank do the trick?”

  He took a step back around the counter, putting space between them. “Malice doesn’t really become you, Marissa.”

  “Oh, give it time, John.”

  “I didn’t know I had all this in the fridge.”

  “You didn’t.” She returned to cooking. His dismissal. He took the offered exit graciously, grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, Geronimo following him to the living room. The dog seemed all but recovered from their rainy-night run. The show-off.

  He glanced at his laptop and opted for the TV, sat rigid on the edge of the La-Z-Boy, taking a long pull of beer as he flipped the news channels. There he was. Or wasn’t.

  A reporter stood in a familiar looking parking lot before a stretch of western Washington farmland, detailing the events as known as footage showed helicopters hovering above a platoon of highway patrol, FBI and canine units working field and forest and a Hewitt truck on its side in a creek bed, a blackened hole in its roof.

  “…rendered unconscious, two with minor injuries, all released this morning…”

  “…a form of attack known as a Denial of Service disrupting the system for several hours…”

  “…risking their lives in this usually peaceful community but were unable to apprehend the suspect before he escaped into the woods.” There was the black Maxima, driver door still open, tires flat, surrounded by cops and crime tape.

  “…between six and eight armed men…”

  They were looking for a mechanic, had a poor security cam capture of him—the backup videos had all been erased. All they knew was he was not Garrett Reed as Mr. Garrett Reed was a short, balding, retired copy editor in Tucson.

  And the idiot who smashed into the police car and ran? And ran and ran?

  “…a white male. Possibly wears glasses. Had a dog.”

  The reported take: Over three million in cash. No mention of the Xbox graphic chips.

  The next story also caught his eye. “Murder link?” read the blatant red caption with “Elise Hutchens, San Diego, CA” in white above it. The perky blonde that Mitch seemed to salivate over patiently explained to the Botoxed, unblinking anchor how crime fighting worked.

  “NIBIN is an acronym for National Integrated Ballistic Information Network. It uses IBIS, a software platform for ballistic comparison and identification. NIBIN has recently superseded the ATF Drugfire system to facilitate better law enforcement information gathering and sharing, part of a new Homeland Security—”

  “Are there any leads?” Elena interjected testily. Nope. Elena again: “Does the FBI believe more killings are imminent? Is this the work of a serial killer? Or killers? It is California. Manson Family comes to mind, Elise. Should the public be afraid?”

  Manson Family comes to mind? Christ.

  For some reason Manson made him think of Odom. And when he thought of Odom he thought of Anj, and when he thought of Anj he thought of…

  Turning the TV off he stepped outside, his sore feet carrying his spent legs down the block. He rapped on the door.

  Mrs. Davis answered, a dish towel in her hands. Wasn’t in her running shorts but a summer skirt and blouse. Looked good. Didn’t hold a candle to the woman making him dinner. Or her sweet sister. If you were into holding candles up to women. She gaped at him, glanced over her shoulder, started to step out—

  There it was, just as Marissa had said. He reached out and snatched it from her neck, turned and left.

  Returning to his own house, Marissa was on the stoop, arms crossed, wine glass in one hand. “Grab a quickie, did ya?” she smirked, looking past him.

  He followed her gaze to Mrs. Davis in her driveway, looking forlornly wounded in their direction, her hand on her throat.

  McConnell held up the French coin by its chain. “She must’ve stolen it.”

  Marissa raised her free hand and he laid the coin over her fingers and carried on into the house.

  “I’m starving. My dinner ready yet or what?”

  Why had she stayed? Some kind of Nurse Nightingale fetish? An obligated decency? She had been hell-bent—righteous anger riding shotgun—on ridding herself of John McConnell. Instead she had uncorked some Pinot and cooked him a damn meal.

  They were in the dining room, at the dining table, not that it saw much use. She alternated watching him shovel food into his mouth and staring at the French coin on its thin, broken gold chain running down her fingers.

  “I’ll replace it,” he managed around a mouthful.

  She shrugged. Of course he would.

  “Your mom can’t cook. Where’d you learn?”

  Pasta with chicken and portabellas tossed in marinara, romaine hearts with cucumber and tomato in a basil vinaigrette, steamed broccoli drizzled with browned butter and garlic. All nearly inhaled and washed down with beer.

  “My roommate. She’s Italian. Cooking and fucking, those are her two great talents.”

  “I didn’t screw Mrs. Davis. I wouldn’t sleep with a married woman.”

  “Good to know. Not like I care.” But she did. A little. She sat back. “You ogled me earlier.”

  He rolled his shoulders. “I didn’t ogle. Just noticed you weren’t wearing much in the way of clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “Nothing, except you’re barely wearing any.”

  She took a sip of wine, ran the stem between long fingers and smiled when she caught him ogling again. “I came straight from the gym, a bit sticky still, in need of a shower if you must know. I didn’t think you’d be here, was just going to say goodbye to the cats.”

  “Still can,” he said around a swallow of beer. “I would. They’re bastards.”

  “They’re not bastards.”

  “You want ’em?”

  “That wouldn’t go over well with my mother.”

  “What does? Why are you saying goodbye?”

  “Why do you think, John?”

  “I don’t know, Marissa. If I did I wouldn’t ask.”

  They stared at one another, matching wills. “Are you done then?” She nodded to his empty plate.

  He shoved the dish away. “Couldn’t eat another bi
te.”

  She rose, came around the table, bent down close enough to him to smell the spearmint shampoo he used and picked up his plate. “Room for pie?”

  She noted his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he struggled to meet her eyes. “Always room for pie.”

  These were Karla’s tactics. She loathed them but didn’t deny their efficacy. She wanted answers and wasn’t leaving until she had them.

  They had their pie in the living room. Peach with fluffy white whip on top. He sat at one end of the sofa and she took up the other, her legs drawn underneath her, all captivating curves and feminine wile.

  “No, I didn’t make the pie. It’s store-bought,” she read his mind. “Betty Crocker I’m not. And I didn’t just make you dinner for the pleasure of your company.”

  “No? That’s a shame.”

  “You’re not going to keep avoiding me.”

  “Reading my mind?”

  “It’s not a terribly difficult thing to do.” She dug up the stereo remote, hit play.

  “Just make yourself at home,” he said.

  “I did.”

  He cocked his head. “Is this Aimee Mann?”

  “Uh-uh,” she said licking her fork. “Corinne Bailey Rae. You like Aimee Mann?”

  “No…I mean…. Your sister played her a lot.”

  She pursed her lips. “Was that so hard?”

  They nibbled. Something was changing between them. There was a crack of daylight. Were her flirtations working? Was he that easy? Her sister may have loved him, had looked to him to help her through hell but he was a man, after all.

  “Why’d your wife leave you?” she asked, keeping him off-balance.

  “Started screwing someone else.”

  “Someone you knew?”

  “Her boss.”

  “How cliché.”

  He picked at a dirty thumbnail. “I don’t blame her. Well, not often. We were both unhappy.”

  She watched him put a fork of pie in his mouth and he watched her do the same.

  “Ogling again?”

  “Don’t act like you know me, Marissa. Just because your sister told you a kind word or two doesn’t—”

  “Kind word? Trust me, they weren’t all kind. Drinker. Stubborn. Angry.”

  He set his pie down. Had she gone too far?

  “You don’t date much do you, John McConnell?”

  He cleared his throat.

  She giggled, wiped whip cream from the corner of her mouth and hated herself as she did it. “God. I can’t keep doing this. I find you incredibly aggravating.”

  “You’re not my cup of tea, either.”

  “What pray tell is your cup then? Because I’ve practically thrown myself at you and you don’t know what to do.”

  He stood. “While I’ve enjoyed this flirty rapport, it’s getting late.”

  “Is that your move? ‘It’s getting late’? Wow. I’ve heard some lame—”

  “Be serious a goddamn minute, will you? Jesus. Don’t you see that I’m trying to protect you?”

  “Protect me? I’m not a child, John—”

  “Now you sound like my daughter. Just let it go. Nothing good will come from your questions.”

  “You’re sure of that, are you? You think you know me?” She set down her pie, stood and faced him. “I have bad days when I miss her like crazy. Truth is we hadn’t been that close in a while, all that time lost because of my foolish pride and selfishness. I have good days too, remember fun times with her, like listening to our dad’s old records, dancing all night and then pretending we were asleep when our mom got home from the late shift. I remember her happy, happiest most of all I think when she was with you, but maybe time or wishful thinking are coloring my memories. Probably. Mostly I try to keep an even keel, keep busy. But sometimes, when something really pushes me over the edge, or I’m just in a mood, I find peace in being really angry.” Her green eyes lit up and lit into him. “Like today. With you. I don’t want to fuck you. I just want answers to my fucking questions. And it might destroy me. Fine. Let it. Let it burn me up with rage, because my sister’s dead, John, she was raped and she didn’t reach out to me she reached out to you and then she slit her wrists and I’m still here, still breathing, still wanting, still feeling, and that’s a way Anj can keep living too but really I just need to know, so let me be hurt by your answers, let me be angered by what happened just as you were, as you are now, please, let me know. If that takes me letting you carry me into the bedroom to rip off my clothes and fucking my brains out, then I’ll do it. Just talk to me. Please.”

  “You know I would never do that.”

  “I know you wouldn’t. I’m saying I would. Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it. That you’re not thinking about it now. I can feel it every time you look at me. I can feel it in the goose bumps on your skin.”

  He walked away from her, spun and said “What the fuck are you doing to me?”

  Hell if I know. “I need to go.” And she did.

  CHAPTER 37

  AUGUST

  Spokane, Washington

  The blanched apricot paint was peeling, like sallow flesh gone to rot. Someone had taken the courtesy of removing the round stool set in the cement floor, leaving old, dried urine stains in its place. Just a holding cell, he wondered if his brother had ever been an occupant of this particular one. He wondered what the color of real jail walls was. Wondered come fingerprinting if things would go badly, if he would find out just how good at being a criminal he really was.

  At least they had removed the cuffs, let him wash the blood from his knuckles and face. He rubbed at his jaw. Someone had gotten in a good one. His ribs ached too. On top of the previous night’s running from the police into a barbwire fence and falling down a hill thing, he wasn’t batting too good an average this week. And nothing Mitch could do to improve his odds.

  He wrinkled his nose. Those piss stains were fresher than they looked. A grimace crossed his face as he adjusted his back against the wall. Just the waiting now. The aching and wondering and waiting.

  These days there seemed to be an awful lot of all three.

  The call came as they always did of late—after midnight with him in deep sleep.

  “Yeah,” he growled into his cell, on his stomach on the bed.

  “John McConnell?” A woman’s voice with raucous music and laughter in the background.

  “Yeah.”

  “You need to get down to The Whore. Missy’s in a bad way.”

  Missy? “Who is this?”

  “It’s Karla. Missy’s roommate? Met you at the mall? Get your ass out of bed and hurry the fuck down here!” She hung up.

  He had no intention of going down to The Whore. No intention of leaving the bed. Not for a day or two.

  “Woof.”

  “Shut up, Geronimo. She’s fine,” he muttered.

  “Woof, woof.”

  Fuck.

  Second Avenue was muggy with languid summer air, the night quiet, save the rumpus of the bar.

  “McConnell? That you?” Mace was working the door, taking cover from the gents, ladies a free pass of course. McConnell extended a hand but Mace pulled him in tight for a bear hug. His back raked with fresh fire.

  “That’s some fucked up shit about your bro, man. War’s a motherfucker.” Mace slapped him on the back and he winced back a growl of pain. The big man turned into the noise. “Yo, Dolan! Dolan! He’s on me!”

  The tall, scruffy kid nodded, not losing a step in his over-service.

  It was a Saturday, The Whore was a boisterous, noxious, sweltering zoo, the keepers having flung the cage doors wide and fled for their own safety. Twenty degrees hotter inside than out, humid with life as a maelstrom of bodies ebbed and flowed into one another, laughing, drinking, spilling, arguing, flirting, fondling, could be fucking in a dark corner or two for all he knew. A younger crowd now, or he was just older, and quite eclectic; the crew of tattooed metalheads ever-present, pierced goths and punks in full batt
le rattle accounted for, everyone trying to outwear each other with the color black, now rubbing elbows with clean-cut, collegiate types, the kind that would make it to class at least once a week come fall, for shame. The proletariat were there, always at home at The Whore; the restaurant workers and fast food crews; the platoons of mocha engineers and quick-lube technicians; cashiers of every stripe, the twenty-somethings-sans-future who eked out a debatable living trudging the service trenches with meth-piped aspirations and marijuana dreams for something better. Last, a small cadre of his contemporaries, some he recognized, out for a beer, reminiscing at the ol’ watering hole, won’t make that mistake again, and some he might have recognized once, the devoted dregs, the profligate zealots who had never surrendered the ghost, converting their youthful spirit to a less promising faithful daily mass. AKA, Mace’s bread and butter.

  Jostled about, adrift in a sea of people if that’s what these creatures were, he decided to leave, he knew the way, was tired and wanted to go to bed, achingly so, this wasn’t his scene anymore, wasn’t his orbit, he didn’t have one, not now, he was a killer now, he belonged in a cave, a shack in Montana, a dank basement, put that lotion on the skin else you get the hose again—

  “Hey! You get lost or what? I called an hour ago!” Karla yelled, drink in hand, bouncing in front of him out of nowhere.

  “What’s wrong with Marissa?” he yelled back.

  “She’s in the back.” She waved for him to follow her and he did, wondering if his daughter would ever wear a skirt that short and how he’d feel about it.