Conard County--Traces of Murder

by Rachel Lee

  Hell, he’d been moving weapons for years, a cog in the chain between manufacturers and the battlefield. What he’d begun to do for money really wasn’t that different. Or so he told himself.

  He knew it could get him in some serious trouble, especially with the man who had been running the operation and maybe others.

  A lot could happen between leaving manufacturing plants and arriving at destinations. Even shipments of socks turned up missing, and the security on weapons didn’t seem to be much more stringent. At least not when you knew what to do.

  He even had heard of weapons and ammo disappearing from stateside military bases. Amazing the power of a soldier working in such a place. A little here, a little there, and a small cover-up and no one would notice.

  For a while, at any rate. Didn’t anyone do inventory?

  A stupid question. When the guy diverting the stuff was the same one who was doing the inventory, the cover-up was easy.

  As well he knew. That’s why he’d been selected for this operation.

  Which had brought him here. The only place that was more back of the beyond than Conard City was the place he had come from. Now he’d committed a murder in both places and was thinking about another one or two.

  Had anyone asked him five years ago if he would do any of this, he’d have sworn he never would.

  Until the money was offered. Until the fear took over.

  He was a changed man.

  He hated to think about it.

  * * *

  LAST NIGHT, TRACE BELIEVED, something had almost happened between him and Hillary. A look, an atmosphere, something. There had been a huge ground shift between them. Like an earthquake.

  But nothing had come from it, probably because they were both cautious. Any kind of relationship would be fraught with problems.

  He felt almost guilty for entertaining such ideas, given all that had happened. Well, guilt never did a damn bit of good. His mind was going to rove wherever it chose, and maybe it needed a serious break.

  “We’ve got a lot to think about,” he said to Hillary as they finished up their run. “A few threads to weave together.”

  “We certainly need more information to act on. Are you growing satisfied, though?”

  He thought about it. “I’m growing even more convinced that Allan didn’t die by suicide.”

  “I thought you were already convinced.”

  He shook his head. “There’s always a doubt when you have little but belief. Now I feel justification ahead. Maybe.”

  The lack of answers aggravated the hell out of him. “Brigid had to have known something important. Allan wouldn’t worry over nothing.”

  “She must have told him somehow.”

  “Which is why we’re on this quest. And I’m sick of jawing over the same ground.”

  Hillary remained quiet as they slowed into a cooldown walk. Then she spoke the obvious.

  “It’s already clear something was being concealed.”

  The endless hamster wheel, Trace thought. Totally endless at this point. But Allan had evidently felt that Trace could figure it out.

  “Hell,” he said aloud. “I was never good at puzzles. Allan knew that.”

  “I imagine he believed otherwise. At any point after Brigid died, he could have written it all down for you to find.”

  “So what was he afraid of at that point?”

  “Dragging you into danger.”

  Trace looked up at the sky. It was darkening again, pregnant with clouds. As they were.

  * * *

  HILLARY STEERED THEM to Maude’s diner. Trace needed another break whether he knew it or not. Something to divert him a bit longer from his search. Obsession was rarely a good thing and could become blinding.

  “You know,” she remarked, “I have no idea what time of day it is anymore.”

  That drew a laugh from him. “Did we ever have? After a while in the military, you need a watch just to tell you the time wherever we are.”

  “Very true.”

  Trace glanced at his watch. “It’s past noon and well before dinner hour. Maude’s shouldn’t be too packed.”

  Nor was it, which suited Hillary fine. They chose a table at the back. One that allowed them to keep their backs to the wall. Hillary felt inwardly amused. Soldiers. Guard the back at all times.

  Maude didn’t even ask if they wanted coffee. It slammed down in front of them, along with a couple of glistening menus. “Keep them tanks full,” she grumped before stalking away.

  Hillary and Trace exchanged looks. Trace shrugged. “I guess everyone has noticed how much running we do.”

  “It would seem so.”

  “You don’t always have to come with me.”

  “I’d need a broken ankle to stop me,” she answered. “I’m still wondering about your knees, however.”

  “They’ll be fine.” He paused. “I’m expecting notification that I’m being discharged as medically unfit, injury in the line of duty.”

  Hillary caught her breath. “No!” It was a sharp whisper.

  He eyed her grimly. “I’ll never jump again.”

  “That is terrible.” She felt an ache for him.

  “Yeah. But everyone has an expiration date. I believe I’ve reached mine. What good would I be except standing post at a forward-fire base?”

  Maude appeared, demanding their orders. Hillary let Trace handle it because now her mouth felt as dry as sand and any appetite she’d had was gone. He’d just shared that he was facing another catastrophe on top of the deaths of his two best friends.

  And this was a tragedy. He was confronting losing his identity, one he’d carried for many years. The day would come for her, too, as it came for everyone, but she couldn’t stand to think about the day when she’d no longer be Jegertroppen. That was who she was. Eventually it would be in the past, and she’d be a former. A retired. Which wasn’t the same at all.

  Easy enough for someone else to say, Well, you’re other things, too.

  Except this was different. It was bone-deep different. Everything in her life had been built around this one thing. To lose it would leave her feeling gutted. She wondered if there was any way to prepare for it.

  She also wondered if Trace had been trying to prepare himself, or if he’d been living on strands of hope. “Jeg synes sind på deg.”

  He looked at her and she caught herself. English. “I feel bad for you.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “It sounded better in Norwegian.” Then he shook his head. “Don’t. It comes to us all.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

  “Well, no,” he admitted just as Maude slammed plates in front of them.

  Maude said, “Everybody’s talking about how much running you two do. Seems crazy to me, but to each their own. Eat. You can’t be that skinny from running and not need to top your tank.”

  Something between a snort and a laugh escaped Trace. “Thanks, Maude.”

  The woman sniffed as she marched away.

  Hillary looked at the mound of food in front of them.

  “She wasn’t joking,” Trace said. “Except nobody is going to run very soon after this much food.”

  A laugh escaped Hillary. “I wasn’t planning to do it all over again too soon.”

  Everything was hot and fresh, and they both dived in with pleasure. “What will you do?” Hillary asked, referring to what he’d said about disability retirement.

  “When I’m tromping the streets as a civilian again? I don’t know. I guess I should start thinking about it soon. But it can’t involve a desk.”

  The wry way he said it brought another smile to her face.

  “I think I’ve learned that for sure,” Trace continued. “No long periods at a desk. I’ll have to dig up some other skills.”

 
“I believe you probably already have them. Or you can develop them soon.”

  The problem was, Hillary realized, that she was not feeling those cheerful words at all. She couldn’t imagine the gaping hole this was going to drill into Trace. She hoped he heard something different from the Army, but she feared he was right. Cogs had to work correctly or they were replaced.

  “I could teach you to ski,” she said suddenly.

  That brought a grin to his face. “Norwegian spec ops?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “At least you could work out all that energy skiing cross-country. I don’t think it would be terribly hard on your knees. And you could always teach younger soldiers.”

  “What they already know,” he said dryly. “Thanks, but you’ll have to do better than that.”

  She laughed. “You’re right. Well, we could teach you to raise sheep.”

  What was she doing? she wondered. Picturing him in Norway? Oh, this was getting dangerous, and not the kind of danger she was trained to handle.

  Together they walked down the street toward the Mannerly house, carrying plastic bags full of leftovers. Maude had been more than generous, and any thought of cooking later had vanished.

  For which they were probably both grateful, Hillary thought with amusement.

  Since it was blustery out, few people they passed did more than say hello before moving on. Fine by Hillary. The cold was beginning to bite her cheeks, and she wished she had chosen a balaclava instead of a watch cap. But then, she hadn’t planned to stay for long.

  The last autumn leaves were being ripped from the trees as they strode along the sidewalk. They didn’t linger long enough to cover grass.

  “Have you ever wondered,” she asked, “where the leaves go when the wind carries them away?”

  “Into some unfortunate neighbor’s lawn,” he answered. “I imagine it’s like the snow. Usually it blows away until it gets caught somewhere. If you’re lucky, it won’t be on your driveway.”

  She felt her cold cheeks crack into a smile.

  “Say,” he said as they approached the house.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve noticed you never say you’re sorry in the way we use it. As in, ‘I’m sorry something bad happened to you.’ Is there a reason?”

  “In Norway, at least,” she answered, “to say we’re sorry is not an expression of commiseration. It’s an apology for having done something. A statement of taking responsibility for an action.”

  He was quiet a moment. “That’s interesting. I never thought about it.”

  “Why would you? It’s different in English.”

  “It also makes sense to me. You’re right, sorry sounds more like an apology if you think about it. I wonder if it changes an individual’s perception.”

  “I can’t say. I just know I am not in the habit of apologizing for what I can’t control.”

  “Do you hear it the same way in English?” he asked as they turned onto the short walkway to the front door.

  “I’ve grown accustomed to the English usage. It doesn’t confuse me.”

  He looked at her as he opened the door. “I don’t think very much confuses you.”

  Then, out of her came a truly American phrase. “Wanna bet?”

  He broke up at that and was still laughing as they carried the bags into the kitchen.

  “Do you think in Norwegian?” he asked as they put foam containers in the fridge.

  “Usually. The longer I am here, the more I think in English.”

  “As in wanna bet?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “As in. But you’ve seen me slip a few times.”

  “I hardly think of it as a slip. And it’s charming.”

  She felt warmed by his choice of words. But all too soon, coffee in hand, they headed back to the office and the endless search.

  “We haven’t seen that man in a while,” she remarked as she slid into her office chair.

  “I wish that made me feel better.”

  She knew exactly what he meant. If the man were an enemy, it was far better to have him in plain sight. If he were hiding, so much the worse.

  * * *

  AT SOME POINT, Trace began to mutter silently, then not so silently, at Allan. The thoughts he had weren’t exactly nice, and occasionally they slipped past his lips as a quiet grumble.

  Eventually Hillary, who was still moving through the stack of envelopes and sorting any other correspondence from Brigid, remarked, “Allan left you a mess.”

  “I’m wondering why the hell he didn’t clarify this after Brigid was killed. Why hide it any longer? Unless he wanted to wait until he could report a full picture.”

  “I am wondering just how bad this will be when we piece it together.”

  Trace swiveled to look at her. “There’s no need for you to take on this risk.”

  “I’m accustomed to risks. They don’t frighten me.”

  Of course not, Trace thought. God, he wanted them both out of this mess, but he didn’t want to betray Allan and Brigid. A lifetime of friendship was worth chancing a lot of danger.

  Back to work building his own file of date-ordered emails. He couldn’t escape that a warning must be hidden in this hodgepodge mess. Allan wouldn’t have done this without reason.

  Eavesdropping? Did he think the government might have been looking at his and Brigid’s emails? If so, this mess was colossal.

  But clearly Allan had been worried about something bigger than an individual. No single man could access protected emails. The military was very careful about that.

  Which brought him around to the NSA, but that seemed a whole lot bigger than would make sense, unless Brigid had stumbled on an extensive operation that could reach anywhere. Something that could rise to the highest corridors of power.

  How likely was that?

  How likely was it that two people would be killed over it?

  His stomach began to turn sour. “I need to stop for a while.”

  Hillary looked at him. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh yeah. Two people dead. Just how big is this damn thing?”

  She frowned. “I’ve been trying not to think about that.”

  “Maybe it’s time we should both think about it. I don’t care if my rapidly ending career terminates over this. But what about yours?”

  * * *

  THEY RETIRED TO the living room for some calisthenics. After that they repaired to the kitchen. Hillary hunted around to find a way to make hot chocolate. She found no cocoa powder, only an instant mix similar to what she sometimes encountered in field rations.

  It would have to do. Besides, she knew how to make it richer—two packets to a cup and some of the heavy cream she had bought for cooking.

  She washed the insulated mugs, used a handy electric kettle to heat the water and, when it was ready, she added a couple of spoonfuls of cream. The measurements were different from the metric ones she was accustomed to, but eyeballing worked just as well for this. She placed a mug in front of Trace, who seemed to be contemplating something over a far horizon, then sat with him.

  Presently he said, “We may be looking at an octopus with a lot of high-level tentacles.”

  She nodded, having nothing to add.

  “This should have occurred to me sooner in more than a passing way.”

  “Why? It’s unthinkable.”

  “Until now, evidently. God, Hillary, we may be stepping into quicksand, and I don’t want to take you down with me.”

  “There is always a way out of quicksand.”

  He shook his head. “You know what I mean.” He shook his head once more. “I don’t know why, but I was thinking of one bad guy. Or maybe two. I know we mentioned it, but I honestly didn’t truly think beyond that to a chunk of upper-level command.”

  “Or a large indepe
ndent contractor.”

  “Which wouldn’t be much better. If it has important contacts within the military, then Brigid and Allan’s cautious communications make sense.”

  She sipped her cocoa, hot and tasty enough to make up for the real ingredients. “Perhaps they didn’t know but were merely being very cautious.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Until they both died.” Now, at last, he sipped his own cocoa. “Not bad for a campfire quickie.”

  “It will do. I must say, Trace, that I find it just as appalling that a contractor might sell arms to the enemy. There is no excuse for whoever did this. None.”

  She stabbed her finger at the table, making a small thump. “A contractor stands to lose a lot, too. Huge contracts.”

  “Only if it gets out. Someone might cover for them. Everyone gets a few dollars in their pockets. The question is, how much money does it cost to get the right people to sell out?”

  A question with no answer. Few of these questions had answers.

  “Of course,” he continued, “no military personnel need to be involved in reading their emails. Think about it. Who builds the equipment we depend on for secrecy?”

  Ice ran down Hillary’s spine. “Compromised communications?” There weren’t enough curse words in Norwegian to express her feelings about that. Worse than arms sales. A threat to every single operation, every single soldier, out there. Out there anywhere in the world.

  “You give me nightmares,” she said.

  “I’m going to have them, too. I’d suggest another run up the mountain, but look out the window.”

  She turned her head and saw snow blowing almost horizontally past the window.

  Trace spoke. “And don’t tell me you can do it. I know you can. But why risk a broken leg or a broken neck because we need to work off some stress?”

  She didn’t want to admit he had a point, but he did. Some conditions should only be challenged for training or for combat. Being foolhardy was never excusable.

  “You know what I’m going to do?” he asked several minutes later.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to take a few hours off. Nothing we can do now is going to bring Brigid or Allan back. So I’m going to declare it time to relax. I’ll uncover the fireplace and build a fire. We can pretend we’re out in some lost cabin in the middle of a blizzard.”