The Ex

by Margaret Ferguson

  AJ looked at his father, unconvinced. “This isn’t what we talked about,” AJ argued. “You told me they would do whatever we asked if we had hostages.”

  “Leon says we can reach more people this way,” Arnold offered.

  “Leon says?” AJ asked, more than a little miffed. “Leon says,” he repeated, flatly, looking between his dad and Leon.

  “AJ,” he reasoned. “We knew there was a chance this could go sideways. “And Leon and Eddie—” Only he was cut off.

  “Well, maybe we should give Leon a gun. Huh?” He sneered. Then his eyes fell on me. “Or maybe we should give Eddie, here, a weapon since you trust him so much, now.”

  Arnold glanced my way as I merely sat there, my arms resting on my knees, watching the whole thing play out.

  “AJ,” Arnold replied, calmly.

  “No, Dad. You said that we would tell everyone everything they’ve done at the VA and that they’d have to fix it.” AJ began to pace.

  Arnold tried to interrupt but to no avail.

  “You told me we’d be heroes.” AJ glared at his father, betrayal in his eyes.

  When Arnold’s eyes met mine again, I raised my eyebrows. “Heroes,” I muttered under my breath. “Hmm.”

  “What did you say?” AJ asked, obviously hungry for a fight.

  “So, this isn’t just about the Blue Water veterans,” I stated, more than asked.

  “Yes. I mean no,” AJ corrected, feeling flustered.

  “Help us to understand.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” he hollered, pointing his rifle at me. “You’ve done nothing but undermine me from the start.”

  I held up my hands. “I’m being sincere. Help us to understand why we are here, AJ.”

  “I’m trying to save them.”

  “Save who?” I asked curiously.

  “The veteran who lands on the street because he’s lost everything when he gets home. Or, the soldier whose family walks out on him because they don’t recognize him anymore when he comes back from three tours of duty. The one who loses his faith, because the government who thanks him for his service tells him he has to wait months to be treated.”

  “So, write your Congressman. Tell them to change the laws.” I offered.

  I could see him tensing under pressure. “I tried, but they wouldn’t listen—none of them. None of them!” he spat angrily. “Now, we have to show them,” he hissed.

  “Show them what?” I asked, knowing I was making him madder every time I questioned him.

  “What they’ve done to us—what they are doing to us,” he reasoned. “Do you know how many of my brothers and sisters in arms have killed themselves? Simply because they don’t know how to deal with what they’ve done?” He gripped his rifle more tightly. “They come home to a changed world,” he reasoned. “I know a guy who killed his whole family, with a Samurai sword. After six years over there, he just snapped. He couldn’t deal with being a stranger in his own home. So, he killed them all. Every last one of them, including his baby boy.” He continued pacing, his eyes on me the entire time, unwavering, like a predator eyeing his prey.

  And, as I met his gaze, I thought I saw his eyes moisten with tears. Tears of anger. Tears of rage.

  “The media built him up to be a lunatic. Probably the same thing they’ll say about us,” he added, under his breath, before raising his voice again. “But what they didn’t know, or did and didn’t say, is he sought psychological help in his unit. Only, they kept sending him back into action, putting him right back into what took his mind.” AJ shook his head. “And when he got home—six months ago, mind you,” he stressed, “he couldn’t even get an appointment with the VA. They told him they were backlogged, and he had to wait.” He stopped pacing and glared at me. “How do you tell the demons in your head to wait? To stop tormenting you, day and night? To leave you alone?” he hollered.

  Slowly, I shook my head.

  AJ drew in a deep breath as he stopped pacing and lowered his trembling voice. “Do you know how many of us they have discarded because we question what we’re doing or can’t deal with what we’ve done?” he rambled.

  Ah, now we were getting somewhere.

  Under normal circumstances, I might feel sorry for this guy. Only, these weren’t normal circumstances. War can drive a person mad—drive one to do unspeakable things. Men verbally and physically abusing the ones they love most, drunken bar fights in which men beat each other within an inch of their lives, just because they are there. Anger and hatred spewed out in the workplace. At friends. At strangers.

  It takes a strong disposition to endure military service. Especially when dispatched to a war zone. Don’t get me wrong. I’m in no way making excuses for bad behavior. I merely state that I understand from where it comes. I know the fear of life after war. During war. The uncertainty. The adrenaline-rush. Been there, done that.

  However, when I glanced on the sea of injured and frightened faces, it wasn’t hard to put things in perspective. To see what they had done, what they were still doing. Forget about any self-perceived act of nobility in the cause. Nothing justifies this. I felt my anger rising again. My resolve returned as I looked at the armed man, my voice flat, refusing to show him an ounce of empathy for what had driven him to this.

  “You signed up to be a soldier,” I argued. “Did you not? What did you think you were going to do? Get some cozy deployment to Germany? Didn’t you see the commercials? Don’t you watch the news? Didn’t you train with a gun?”

  “You’re missing the point,” he retorted furiously, eyes darting about wildly. “They made us into weapons. Only, the weapons they build, they treat with better care. They oil them and maintain them and make sure they work to peak performance. They spend millions of dollars, making sure they don’t break down, that they work to perfection. But if their human weapons need care, they simply stick a Band-Aid on us. They tell us to suck it up. And, if we don’t show peak performance, they discard us and replace us for less than they pay for the artillery we carry. Or for a damned jeep. They don’t help us. They use us. We’re disposable.” He leaned back against the wall, his weapon at his hip. “And it’s never going to stop unless someone makes them stop.”

  “Someone like you?” I asked, as Corbin casually handed me bottled water.

  AJ held his rifle in the air as his chest heaved in and out. “Yes, like me!” He howled painfully. “Look what they’ve done to me! Look what they made me do!”

  “And you’re going to change all that,” I said, flippantly. “And then what? The government miraculously changes its policies? It took us a couple hundred plus years to get into this mess. And you’re going to change that overnight?” I asked, looking around the room. “Like this?”

  “What are you doing?” Corbin asked me, under his breath.

  “The media will do what they do best. They’ll dig and ask questions,” AJ continued. “Then, others will step up and tell them the truth. Somebody has to tell the truth.”

  “What is the truth?”

  AJ raised his voice, red-faced. “Soldiers are getting turned away for treatment. Told to wait and wait and wait, while our taxes pay for some illegal to have their kids here. American men and women are sacrificing everything to serve this country, and then coming back to live on the street, because they can’t get the care they need or deserve.”

  “It’s a messed up system, guys. But, this isn’t how you change it.”

  “Really? Really! Then tell me how to do it,” his voice trembled with fury. “Huh? What am I supposed to do? What is he supposed to do?” AJ pointed at his father. “He’s so eaten up with cancer, and in pain all the time. And all the VA does is make excuses and fight claims.”

  “I can think of a hundred other options,” I quipped unsympathetically. “Talk to your patient advocate. Call the Inspector General.”

  “I did all that! And more! For nine damned months,” he bellowed. Then he pointed at his father again. “For forty damned years, his father, an
d mother and now he and tens of thousands of other veterans have been fighting for Agent Orange benefits. Forty years!” he screamed. “How many have died waiting? How many gave up fighting?” AJ looked at his father. “Look at him,” he spat.

  I looked up at Arnold, and his eyes were on his son. When I glanced around, every eye was on the young captor as well.

  “He’s dying. They killed him. And they don’t even care.” He looked into his father’s eyes. “They didn’t leave us any choice. They did this! Can’t you see?!” he screamed painfully, the weight of his perceived dilemma in his eyes. In his voice. “What choice did I have? What was I supposed to do?” Then he howled aloud, “I’m the man on the corner with the cardboard sign and you can’t ignore me anymore!!”

  “Not this,” Mary Beth said from behind, her timid reply startling us.

  AJ turned to her immediately as she stepped to him, compassion in her eyes. His chest heaved in and out from emotion, and for a brief moment, I thought he would collapse into her arms, hoping for a ‘mommy hug’.

  Suddenly, the music stopped, and the lights blinked off, and everyone looked around, surprised. In that moment of disorientation, the cowboy tackled AJ, knocking him to the floor. Arnold immediately fired into the air, trying to regain control of the situation, causing everyone to scream and duck again. AJ and the redneck rolled around on the ground, the rifle suddenly firing. Everyone ducked as bullets flew randomly around us, hitting the bar and tables. Including the wall against which I had just been leaning.

  Arnold hollered for everyone to stay still as the cowboy and AJ fought for control of the gun. Many of the hostages screamed and rushed toward the kitchen, while three or four others took advantage of the chaos and ran toward the broken window. Arnold, no longer in control, fired into the air again.

  The cowboy punched AJ several times in the head until AJ rolled him over and struck him hard in the face with the rifle, breaking his nose. The cowboy, in one last attempt to get the gun, grabbed it, causing it to discharge again. Arnold yelled for the man to let go or he’d shoot him. The cowboy, barely able to breathe, fell to the floor, beaten and in pain. Arnold was flustered and furious. Angry at himself for not paying attention to the hostages or those still outside the building, I’m sure. He raised his rifle and hit the cowboy once in the head as he tried to get back up. The man fell at his feet without moving.

  AJ coughed and sputtered as he tried to rise. When he got to his feet, he immediately pointed his gun at the remaining hostages.

  Arnold abruptly looked at Mary Beth, motioning with his gun for her to check on the redneck. Then he turned his attention to the gathering responders outside, concerned they were preparing to breach. Immediately Arnold fired above their heads into the brick of the building across the street. “Stay back!” he hollered.

  Mary Beth checked the unconscious man to make sure he was breathing. But before she could even give him a complete once over, AJ reached down, grabbed her arm, jerking her up and against himself, his rifle to her chin.

  I felt like someone had gut-punched me.

  And then someone screamed. We all turned suddenly to find Elizabeth’s teenage daughter lying in a pool of blood, her mother shaking her furiously.

  Marichaelle reached over and felt for a pulse. “She’s still alive,” she exclaimed. “Barely,” she added. Then she pulled off her jacket and pressed it to the girl’s chest. “What’s her name?” she asked.

  “Priscilla,” Elizabeth sobbed, holding her daughter’s arm. “Hang on sweetie. Mommy is right here.”

  “You’re gonna be okay, Priscilla,” Marichaelle promised, pressing the jacket tighter against the girl, while Elizabeth cried and pleaded for someone to help her.

  I glanced at Mary Beth and then down at the girl, desperately torn. When I looked back into Mary Beth’s eyes, I did the only thing I knew to do. Quickly, I picked up the girl, cradling her in my arms and rushed toward the front of the building…

  toward help.

  Truth and Consequences

  Chapter 27

  I refused to sit in the chair they offered me, merely pacing anxiously before the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the building from which I’d just been rescued. It had been fifteen minutes since I’d left Mary Beth and the others, carrying Priscilla and handing her over to the medics. Only, as I had turned to rush back inside, I was quickly knocked to the ground by at least four men. And now, for the second time today, I was in handcuffs, only these were metal. Suddenly, the door opened, and I turned to find Foster confidently strolling into the room, two female officers on his heels.

  “Well, well.” Foster tossed a file onto the table, dropping into the chair opposite the one in which I refused to sit. The women stood at the doorway, guarding it. Or was it me they were guarding? “If it isn’t Eddie, or Brandon E., or whatever name you are going by today. Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

  “A key.”

  He laughed as though I’d told a joke. “Of course. But first, I’d like to clear up a few things.”

  “How’s Priscilla?” I asked anxiously.

  “Oh? They didn’t tell you?” His expression changed. He waited several seconds, watching me before delivering the news. “She didn’t make it.”

  I felt like someone had just punched me, and I dropped my head, and my shoulders drooped in defeat.

  “So, now we’re looking at murder charges, too.” He sat, then tapped the table before him. “Sit.”

  I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath before responding, a little defiantly. “I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself.” He leaned back in his chair, opening the file before him, staring at it before closing it again and leaning forward onto his arms.

  I ignored him, continuing to pace, frustrated that I’d allowed them to take me down. Frustrated that I was up here, while Mary Beth and the others were still in harm’s way.

  “So, let’s start with who you are, what you were doing there today, and who you were with.” He set a small recorder on the table in plain view.

  “My name is Edward Roarck; I’m a retired Captain in the United States Army and a member of the Texas Army National Guard.” I rounded the table. “We had training at Fort Hood this weekend,” I said as I walked nearer to him. When I arrived just inches away, I leaned over the table and got into his face. “And what I was doing there and who I was with is none of your damned business.” When the two women officers stepped forward, I stepped back.

  Only, he held up his hand, and they stopped their advance. “I beg to differ,” he tilted his head as he contemplated me. “You see, Eddie, there were several people who described a third shooter, and as it is, you fit that description.”

  I scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Really? Well, in all the times I called in, you are the only one I spoke to.” He shrugged.

  “That’s because—”

  “And when the hostages were released, you were the one giving all the orders,” he interrupted.

  I began shaking my head, realizing where this was going.

  “And if you just came from training, why were you wearing a chef’s coat?”

  “I thought they were targeting soldiers.”

  “And then there’s the little matter of a bloodied ring and melted set of dog tags in your pocket.” He narrowed his brow. “Interesting set of souvenirs you collect.”

  I dropped my head again, continuing to shake it. “I took them off the two guys killed in the blast, to help identify the victims; to help you notify their next of kin, whenever I got out.”

  “Well,” he exclaimed, leaning back in his chair. “You’re out,” he retorted smartly.

  “Then why the hell am I still in cuffs?” I barked.

  “You tell me,” he insisted. “Why the hell were you so anxious to get back in there when everyone else was so eager to get out?”

  “I can’t… I can’t explain.” I suddenly felt trapped.

  “Well, you’d better, or you
’re going to be facing obstruction charges, at a minimum.”

  I hesitated a moment. “Do I need an attorney?”

  “I don’t know,” he quipped. “Do you need an attorney?”

  I leaned against the wall staring off into nowhere as I tried to work out in my mind what I should do.

  “Then I can’t help you.” He smacked the file on the table and turned to leave.

  I drew in a deep breath, feeling defeated. “Fine!” I exclaimed, kicking back the chair and dropping into it. When I looked up at him, he was still facing me, expectantly. I lowered my head again. “I was there with a friend.”

  “And?” he drew out the word.

  “A female friend.”

  He continued to look at me expectantly, knowing there was more. “A married—female friend?” he persisted. When I didn’t reply, a big smug grin grew across his face. “You dog,” he mockingly congratulated.

  “It’s not like that,” I said, without any intention of explaining myself.

  “That’s what they all say,” he countered.

  “It’s complicated,” I continued.

  “It usually is,” he exhaled loudly before looking around. “And to think all this time I thought you were part of the crew.”

  “No,” I breathed out. “I did whatever I had to do to ingratiate myself into their good graces, to help save lives.”

  “To protect a woman,” he clarified.

  I pursed my lips. “Yes.”

  He nodded, chuckling to himself. “Helluva way to get busted, huh?”

  I look down, ashamed.

  If it’s only a lunch…

  “So, tell me, Captain, what are we looking at?”

  “Two perps. Father and son,” I replied. “But, I figure you already know that.”