Dr. Ryan spoke in one long exhale. “So tell me what’s been going on, Brynn. Is it okay if I call you Brynn?”
Is it okay if I call you asshole? “Sure.”
He continued to stare at me, blue eyes blinking behind wiry frames.
I blinked back and then realized he was waiting for me to talk. “There was an incident last week with my job. My boss wants me to be evaluated.”
He retrieved a manila file from the nearby desk and flipped through the papers inside. Like he didn’t know what was inside it. “Yes. An FFD”—a fitness for duty exam—“was ordered. Drug testing and a psych workup. Do you have any questions before we get started?”
“No.”
“There’s a brief history here in your file. It says you’re ex-military, a cop now. There are a couple past minor incidents listed: conflicts with a fellow employee, missed workdays, nothing major.” He looked up. “You were medically discharged?”
I pulled my shirt back, exposing my neck. “I was hit by an IED.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sounded like a robot. Flat. Expressionless. Like “Who cares.”
“Must’ve been painful,” he said.
“Still is.”
“How do you cope?”
Whiskey to dull the pain, Vicodin from time to time, all the time, to smooth the rough edges.... “Day by day, I guess.”
“Flashbacks, nightmares?”
“Both.”
“Must’ve been difficult to be a female Marine.”
“Marine.”
“Pardon?”
“I was a Marine, period. And, yeah, it’s a hard job, but the best job ever. A privilege.”
“You miss it?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Most of it, anyway.”
“What do you miss?”
“My buddies. Yeah, my buddies. People were real, you know. Something about knowing you could die at any time puts a different spin on things. Friends were friends. Real friends.”
“Do you have any ‘real friends’ now? Here?”
“My dog. Wilco.”
He smiled. An oh-that’s-so-sweet smile that most people reserved for five-year-olds. “Of course. But I meant human friends.”
I thought of Pusser. Grabowski. Parks. Friends? I wasn’t sure. “My family is here. We’re close.”
He paused, set his clipboard and file aside, and clasped his hands together. “The aftereffects of war can be difficult for some veterans to deal with, and alcohol or other drugs can become an easy crutch.”
I chuckled. “I never would have guessed that, Doc.”
“Do you abuse alcohol?”
“I wouldn’t say I ‘abuse’ it.”
“What would you say?”
“I have a drink here and there. Just to unwind. Most people do.”
“‘Unwind’? Do you have anxiety?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m asking you.”
“War’s not easy.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
He frowned. “Do I what?”
“Understand.”
He leaned back. I had his full attention now.
“Ever been in a war, Doc?”
“No.”
“Ever been shot at? Killed someone? Handled a bloated, rotting, maggot-infested body? Smelled your own flesh burning?” He was shaking his head. No, of course not. Mr. Creased Pants wouldn’t last two seconds in the sandbox without wetting himself.
He shifted. “Tell me about it.”
“There’s not enough time to go into all that.”
“Just one small thing. Something that stands out in your memory.”
One thing? Every second of the damned war was seared into my memory, branded for eternity in my thoughts. I reached for a tissue, dabbed at my face, blew my nose, tossed it in the can, and shifted my attention back to Mr. Headshrinker. “The heat,” I said. “It’s always hot. A half hour into a twelve-hour mission and you’re dripping sweat. Your mouth feels like cotton. There’s never enough water. Sand is everywhere. It works its way under your uniform and into every orifice of your body. You itch, your nose is dried out, your eyes swollen. You can’t see shit. And it’s loud. Crazy loud. Rounds going out, rounds coming in, grenades and rockets, people yelling. You have no idea who the enemy is, what weapons they have, when they might burst out of hiding and take a shot at you. Adrenaline is constantly pumping through your veins. You’re amped up, on edge, ready to die at any moment. That’s what it’s like, day in and day out. That’s what war was like for me, Doc. At least part of the time.”
“What was the rest of your time like?”
“Boring as hell. Stretches of mind-dulling boredom where nothing happens. You sit and wait. And wait. Then, out of the blue, a call comes. You’re needed. You go. You don’t ask questions. You just go. You don’t even know where. The only thing you know for sure is that you could die. It hangs over your head constantly. War is a series of relentless extremes. Boredom to certain death. No between. Anxiety becomes a part of who you are. You never turn it off. You do, and you’re not on your game, not able to save your own thankless hide, let alone your buddies.”
“So you drink to help.”
I frowned. “Never on the job. Just at night to help me sleep. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“That’s probably true.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
His eyes darted from my sweaty face and shaking hands, to my bouncing legs, before coming back to my face again. “You tell me.”
I sat back and glared. “There’s no problem. I’m fine. This is a waste of time.”
He picked up the file again and shuffled through the papers. “Seems this evaluation was prompted by a particular incident.”
“This evaluation was prompted by our jackass of a mayor who thinks his position allows him the right to screw around with people’s lives. His son’s a suspect in a homicide investigation. I asked too many questions, looked too closely at his spoiled brat, and he doesn’t like it. That’s all this is.”
“Tell me what happened at the cemetery.”
I sighed.
He read from the report. “It says here that you acted impaired during the investigation and that resulted in contamination of evidence.”
“I was fine.”
“Several witnesses confirmed the report.”
I sat forward. “Like who? Harris? He’s a jerk. I’d love to see the psych eval on that ego of his. He’d say anything to get me fired.”
Who else? Parks? No, she wouldn’t. She’s on my side. Isn’t she?
“Had you been drinking before arriving on the scene?”
“I worked late the night before. Had a few drinks to unwind before I went to sleep. I didn’t know I was going to get called in the middle of the night. It was a mistake. Something like that could happen to anyone.”
“But it happened to you. And you’re a cop. You carry a gun.”
“It was a one-time deal. It won’t happen again. I won’t let it.”
“Only once?” He paged back through my file. “Let me read this to you. ‘Officer Callahan has been late to shift three times this month. She has seemed, on several occasions, to be in physical distress and to suffer from extreme fatigue. She is often distracted and absentminded. She’s incurred two citizen complaints of misconduct since being inducted into the department last year.’”
I sat back, grinned. “Every cop gets those. People don’t like it when you arrest them. They’re funny that way. So, what do you expect happens? It’s not like they’re going to write a thank-you note.”
He ignored me and continued: “‘These incidents reflect a deterioration from her initial evaluation and demonstrate a pattern of substandard performance—’”
“Substandard performance?” My blood boiled. “What the hell does that mean? I’m out there every frickin’ day busting my butt for the department. Me and my dog. They’re damn lucky to have us. Ask my
boss.”
“Sheriff Frank Pusser?”
“Yeah.”
“He wrote this.”
I sprang from my chair. “This is stupid. I’m leaving.”
“I wouldn’t advise that. This is a mandatory FFD. I think you like your job, Officer. Termination could be the result if you fail to submit.”
Submit. Like allowing my soul to be raped by this mind-numbing redo of every eval I’d had, and by an anemic paper pusher. I gritted my teeth. But what choice did I have? This was the only job that had mattered to me since the Marines. I sat back down.
“I believe you want to be a good cop. You suffer from a disorder—”
“Enough. Enough. Enough! I’m sick of that label. I don’t have a disorder. I served this country. I did my job and all people like you can do is label me disordered. You attribute every emotion and every angry outburst and every misstep to my wartime trauma, as if I have some sort of mental sickness. Would you do that to a vet with an amputated leg? Would you label him disordered because he misses having two good legs? Or because he’ll never walk the same? No. Because he has an obvious injury. It’s the same for me. I was injured.” I pulled back my shirt again, and pointed to my scars. “Here. Look at it!” He did. I moved my finger upward and pointed to my head. “And here. My head, my soul, my whole being. Scarred beyond recognition. Even to me.”
“That may be, but we still need to address any . . . uh . . . lingering issues that may hinder your job performance.”
I threw up my hand. “You know what? This thing at the cemetery was just a fluke. I’m fine. Everything’s under control.” I stood. “I need to get back to work.”
“Okay then.” He closed the folder. “We should have the results from your drug test soon. As soon as I have it, I’ll write up my recommendation.”
CHAPTER 29
The trailer was dark and empty and lonely. Scummy dishes were piled in the sink, cardboard duct-taped over the broken window, a pair of Meg’s jeans strung over the back of the sofa. The smell of last night’s cabbage and pork shanks still hung in the air, along with a faint scent of Gran’s bath soaps. I closed my eyes and inhaled. Sweet yet sour in a way that speaks of home, of real lives, of sweat and sorrow.
A warm pressure pushed against my legs. I opened my eyes and looked down at my dog. His bright eyes coaxed a smile. I gave him a thumping “good boy” pat and he headed back to the door. So easy for a dog—a thump, a smile, and they were good to go. In this case, literally he was ready to go. I shook my head. Only Wilco could so quickly help me shake off the residual anger from my meeting with Dr. Ryan. I let him out and turned to start my own business of gathering equipment for what I planned to do after work—head up the mountain to find the gun Doogan had tossed. I needed to get Wilco’s tactical bag, a water bottle, some snacks. But first, what I really needed.
Meg called as I made my way to my bedroom. “Gran is all settled. She’s doing fine. I wanted you to know.” A tinge of caustic emotion mixed with a heavy dose of tired. About how I felt as well.
“Good. How’s Aunt Tinnie?” I opened the closet door.
“Busy fussing over Gran. I’m going to stay another day or two before coming back. I need to get Gran in to see a doctor.”
“Can I talk to her?” I ran my hand along the top shelf until I hit on it. I pulled down the rolled sock with the small Baggie of pills and took out a few.
“Sure, hold on.” I heard the sound of muffled voices on the other end. Meg came back on the line. “She says she’ll call you later.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“It’s not that. She’s tired, that’s all.” Less caustic now. More apologetic or likely pity. I preferred caustic.
“Sure. I understand.” I kept one pill out, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger, and pocketed the rest. Not many. Not like before. I’d seen the error in my ways. I’d never go back to taking that many pills again.
“Any more news on Maura’s case?”
Yeah. Let’s see . . . another dead body, this one submerged and probably all connected to Maura. I didn’t say any of that, though. “We’re still looking into leads.” It was premature to tell her about the newest find. Better to backtrack, find that connection. “You said you’d never seen Addy at the diner.”
“That’s right.”
“Any other kids that Maura seemed to be friends with?”
“Nevan, of course. And Winnie, and—”
“Settled kids.”
“Isn’t Nevan in jail for Maura’s murder? Are you letting him out?”
“Please, Meg. Just answer me.”
“Mostly just the mayor’s boy. A few others, I guess.”
“Ever see a dark-haired guy. Short and skinny? Really skinny.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen a kid like that. Once he came in and sat in the back booth. He was working on math. Maura took a break and helped him out. Although he mostly just sat there and drew pictures in his notebook, while she did the actual problems. Nice-enough kid, though. I don’t know his name.”
“When was the last time you saw him there?”
“I don’t remember. A while ago.”
I heard a scraping sound at the door. Wilco must’ve finished his business. I hung up with Meg and went to let him inside. Only Wilco wasn’t there. Again I heard the sound. This time from the back of the trailer; not the door, I realized, but the back window. I headed that way, caught a flash of color through the glass.
I darted through the back door. Five men stood in my yard, just a few feet from my window. I recognized one as Pete Riley, Riana’s husband. The guys with him wore sweatshirts with the hoods pulled over their heads, a couple with bloodstained sports wraps on their hands. Boxers. Bare-knuckle fighters. Some might call it barbaric, but to us, it was a tradition, a source of honor and pride. I’d seen most of them before. They hung out in car lots around McCreary, behind the pubs mostly, picking fights for cash. Intimidating as hell. Yet, I figured if they’d wanted to hurt me, they would’ve done so last night. A woman alone, in a deserted location . . . an easy target. So hurting me wasn’t part of their agenda. They were just trying to scare me. Flex their intimidation muscles. Get me to leave Bone Gap, just like I’d had to send Gran scurrying away.
They underestimate me.
“You looking for me?”
“Maybe so,” one of them said.
“What do you want?”
“Just paying you a visit.”
“Like you did last night?”
A smirk, and then, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Like hell. “You have something to say to me, Pete?”
“Maura’s killin’ is clan business. We want you coppers to stay out of it.”
“She was murdered. There are laws, things that have to be done—”
“Bullshit. These things have always been handled inside the clan. That’s how we do things. Seems like you’ve forgotten that.” At his cohorts’ nods, he puffed himself up an inch taller. That’s the trouble with bullies. They need reinforcements, support from . . . Suddenly my nerves tingled. Where’s Wilco? I dared a quick glance. No Wilco.
I held my voice steady as my heart pounded. “Times are changing, Pete.”
“Because of Pavees like you.” He sneered, glanced at his posse. His look empowered these ringside bullies, each stepped closer, eyes like hungry hyenas. Backed by his cronies, his voice rose. “We want you out of here. You and that grandmother of yours.”
The puckered skin on my neck started throbbing. He moved closer. Too close. A whiff of sour sweat and stale beer hit my face. The other guys spread out, a couple of them moving to the left of me. I held his gaze and backed up. “That brick barely missed my grandmother. You could have killed her.”
“Brick? Someone threw a brick at your grandmother. Ahh. That’s too bad.” The guys chuckled. Pete reeked of the musky testosterone that surged through him now. “She was smart to leave then. Maybe you should do the same.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Pete.”
“We’ll see.” He snorted. His buddies laughed. Pete made a woof, woof sound that pierced through me, and another round of raucous laughter broke out. Then like vipers slipping back into the grasslands of an African savanna, the five of them backed off, leaving me shaken and panicked as fear rose like bile in my gut.
Wilco? I looked around. No sign of him. I darted to the front of the trailer. Nothing.
If he’s done something to my dog, I’ll kill him.
I rushed down the street, looking under cars, by trash cans, all the usual spots, with Pete’s laughter echoing in my mind.
I started knocking on trailer doors. Only Rosie Black answered, her comically round breasts bulging from her scoop-necked T-shirt, hot rollers in her hair, the television blaring behind her. “What’s wrong with you? Somethin’ on fire?”
“My dog. Have you seen him?”
She rolled her eyes. “No.” The door slammed shut.
I scanned the edge of the woods, decided against it, and turned back toward Gran’s place. I’d had trouble with him wandering in the past, but he’d been so good about it lately. Maybe he’s back.
But he wasn’t.
I gripped my hair; my head pounded in rhythm with my heart. Over the whooshing in my ears, I heard the faint sound of a dog barking. Wilco’s barking.
Wilco!
I followed the noise. It took me four trailers down to an old shed in the back of an abandoned trailer. I ripped away a shovel wedged under the handle and threw open the door. Wilco rushed to me, knocking me back, alive and frantic, his wet tongue slobbering my face. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him close.
CHAPTER 30
Pusser yanked the toothpick from between his lips and pitched it toward the garbage can in the corner of his office. It missed. Wilco scurried over and gave it a sniff. I watched his eager nostrils flare to catch a whiff of this cast-off, his eyes pinpointing the slender object, even his fur standing at alert to the new toy tossed for what he would always consider his personal benefit. Every muscle twitch was clear and ready and vigilant. Thank God, Wilco was fine. I caught a whiff of something sour, hoped it wasn’t me, and noticed Wilco sniffing around the trash can. Probably used coffee grounds or a rotting banana peel. His nose never quit. He never quit. Another lesson I needed to keep in mind. Had Pete lured him into that shed with some sort of scent? Or food? Either was possible. I’d been lapsing, too lenient, letting other people feed him treats. I knew better. My fault, my fault. The words ran through my mind like a mantra. I’d failed my dog. Put him at risk. And the threat was clear: Leave the clan, or my dog would . . .
Fractured Truth Page 17