Down the Broken Road

by J. R. Backlund

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Carly walked up the driveway carrying her kit. Rachel looked past her at the SUV, marked with yellow stripes and the sheriff’s office logo. It was assigned to Carly exclusively, which meant she would have the freedom to use it if Rachel commandeered her personal vehicle. She whispered to Braddock, “You think she’d mind if I borrowed her Civic?”

  Braddock said, “Hey, Carly, didn’t you just trade your Civic in for a new truck?”

  “Sure did.” She set her kit on the ground and gave Braddock a wary look. “A Tacoma. She’s my baby.”

  “Nice,” Rachel said. “That’ll do just fine.”

  NINETEEN

  Carly worked through the night, first on the gun, then on the exterior of the Camry. When she finished, she called the mechanic and waited around for him to show up with the flatbed. He loaded up the car, and she followed him back to his shop to maintain the chain of custody. It was destined for an isolated bay in his garage, one with doors that Carly could padlock when she wasn’t there collecting evidence.

  Rachel managed a few hours of sleep. Braddock had given her his bed and camped out on the sofa. She woke just before sunup and stared at the ceiling until she heard him stirring in the kitchen. She got up and took a quick shower, put on another one of his T-shirts and a pair of shorts, and went out to see him.

  “I checked the news this morning,” he said, cracking eggs into a frying pan. “They reported on the shooting, but no mention of you yet.”

  Rachel helped herself to a cup of coffee and settled in at the kitchen table. While Braddock finished cooking breakfast, she powered up her laptop and took a few minutes to study her notes from the Larson case.

  “What are you hoping to get from the sister?” he asked, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage in front of her.

  “Larson kept journals during his deployments,” she said. “We turned them over to her after the investigation. I’m betting she still has them.”

  “What do you think you’ll find in them?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t have a lot of time to go through them the first time around. Once we got settled on Bailey as the suspect…” She bit off the tip of a sausage link. “Anyway, who knows what I’ll find. Could be anything. Or nothing. All I know for sure is that Larson and Hubbard were in the same unit, so it seems like a good place to start.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “The only thing is, Larson’s sister is convinced Bailey was guilty. She won’t be happy to see me.”

  After they ate, Braddock drove Rachel to a thrift shop near the center of town. She bought sneakers and a pair of jeans, a couple of loose-fitting V-necks, and a sports bra that had her tugging at the elastic band squeezing her ribcage.

  “Sorry,” Braddock said. “It’s the best we’ve got around here. Unless you want to try the Walmart over in Franklin.”

  “It’ll do.”

  Their next stop was a convenience store on the edge of town. Rachel paid cash for a prepaid smartphone and hoped the technology for tracking them hadn’t changed since she was an agent. She had considered disposing of hers during the drive last night, but there was still information and apps on it that she might need. As long as she kept it turned off, it shouldn’t communicate with any cell towers. That meant local and state law enforcement agencies wouldn’t be able to get her location from the service provider. There had been talk that Apple was creating a “zombie” mode for iPhones, enabling them to continue transmitting location data while powered down. As far as she knew, that hadn’t happened yet. She programmed in a few contacts and texted her new number to Braddock and Carly.

  When she finished shopping, Braddock took her to Carly’s latest rental, an A-frame log cabin that was in need of a major renovation. It was perched on a hillside and provided a stunning view of the river below, but getting up to it was a challenge. Braddock had to switch his Explorer over to four-wheel drive to make the ascent.

  Carly was still at the garage working on the Camry, but her charcoal-gray Tacoma was sitting right out front. She had given Rachel her keys the night before, unable to hide the fear in her eyes.

  “I’ll bring her back in one piece,” Rachel had promised.

  She loaded her briefcase and clothes in the passenger side, then gave Braddock a hug.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “Thank you, Danny. For everything.”

  He hugged her again, then said, “Damn, I almost forgot,” and ran back to his open door. He reached inside the center console and returned with a tiny handgun, a Smith & Wesson .380 that he usually carried on his ankle as a backup. He unhooked the strap and handed it to Rachel. “Just in case.”

  She clipped the holster onto her waistband and pulled her shirt over it to make sure it was hidden. North Carolina was an open-carry state, but displaying a firearm on her hip would bring unwanted attention. She stretched her shirt a little lower and said, “That could work. Hopefully I won’t need it.” She took it off and stowed it under the Tacoma’s driver seat.

  “I’ve got a few things to do at the office before I can leave,” Braddock said. “But I’ll call you as soon as I get to your apartment. You be careful out there.”

  “You too.”

  She climbed in the truck and adjusted the seat and the mirrors. Watched in the rearview for a moment as Braddock backed down the gravel driveway. When she could no longer see him, a wave of apprehension washed over her. Once again, she was alone.

  * * *

  The drive to Fayetteville took Rachel east across the state, descending the mountains and crossing the rolling hills of the Piedmont until she reached the western edge of the Coastal Plain. A patchwork of farmland and untamed pine forests gave way to industrial parks and strip malls and neighborhoods.

  After more than five hours, Rachel turned onto a road lined with two-story town homes. They were new and indistinguishable from one another. Each unit was identical to the next, facing its mirror image across the street.

  She counted the numbers above the garage doors until she found the right address. Then she parked on the street and looked around. She decided to leave the little pistol under the seat as she got out and went to ring the doorbell.

  Kristy Romano came to the door yelling. There were children in the background, noisy and defiant. She opened the door with a scowl and said, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Romano … I don’t know if you remember me or not. I used to be with the SBI.”

  Romano’s face deadened.

  Rachel said, “I was the agent assigned to your brother’s case. My name’s—”

  “I know who you are. What are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping I could talk to you.”

  “About what? Tyler?” She shook her head. “I’ve read the papers, Miss Carver. I know you’re not an agent anymore. And I know you think everything the SBI told us is a damn lie, but I can’t go through this again. I’m sorry. I just don’t have it in me.”

  She moved back and started to close the door.

  “Wait,” Rachel said, reaching out to stop her. “Please. I don’t blame you for being upset with me. And I know it’s a shitty thing for me to just show up here like this, but it’s important. Something’s happened. Something bad. I really need your help. I promise you, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  There was a scream and a thud, like something heavy had fallen upstairs. A child started to cry.

  “Shit.” She glared at Rachel, looked like she was trying to decide what to do. There was another scream. She rolled her eyes and turned toward a set of stairs. She said, “Fine, come in, but close the door behind you,” as she stomped her way up to the second floor.

  Rachel stepped inside and closed the door, listening to Romano’s disembodied voice go from concern to exasperation as she interrogated her children. A pair of boys, Rachel remembered. Eight and ten. Their toys were
strewn over the floor, as were their dirty dishes from a recent lunch. Sweating cans of soda stood on a wooden TV stand, certain to leave a pair of rings in the red-stained finish. A bag of Doritos had been torn open, its contents disseminated in a swath across the carpet.

  For all that Rachel had dealt with in her life, few things terrified her more than the idea of motherhood.

  Romano came downstairs, seemingly oblivious to the state of her home, and invited Rachel to sit with her in the living area. “Sorry about that. I got ’em playing PlayStation, so they should be good for a little while.”

  Rachel stepped over the stripe of Cool Ranch crumbs and settled on a couch. “Thank you for letting me in. I know it’s difficult—”

  “You said something happened?” Romano sat with her arms folded. She had a round face that defaulted to a sweet expression. She was trying her best to look stern.

  “Yes. A friend of mine was killed.”

  That made Romano’s eyebrows go up. Some of the tension left her pursed lips. “I’m sorry to hear that. Who was it?”

  Rachel saw Parker’s face, weak but determined, anxious to do his part to uncover the truth. She felt her throat tighten. She swallowed and said, “He was a reporter, investigating your brother’s murder. I think he was killed because of what he found.”

  Romano looked away. It seemed like a reflexive act. An involuntary response to what she was hearing. “You know, when you went to arrest Lauren … when you shot her … I thought this was all over. I thought we were gonna have some kind of resolution. Some peace of mind. Or some justice, at least. Then you went and started saying all that stuff in the papers.” Her eyes welled. She rubbed the puffy skin beneath them. “I hated you for taking that away from us.”

  “I can understand that. But I’m here now, trying to get you the justice you deserve.”

  She laughed, sniffed hard, and said, “Right. And what about Lauren’s family? What’re you gonna do for them?”

  Rachel couldn’t answer. She didn’t have the courage to admit that there was nothing she could do for them. Nothing that would matter.

  “I’m sorry,” Romano said. “I shouldn’t be such a bitch.”

  “It’s okay. With everything you’ve been through…”

  “Yeah, well … look, I’m not trying to be rude, but what is it that you want from me?”

  Rachel thought it best not to come right out and ask for the journals. She said, “I know you and Tyler were close. Do you think there’s anything at all we might have missed during the investigation? Anything that might have occurred to you since then?”

  “Like what?”

  “Can you think of anyone who would’ve wanted to hurt him? Or anything he might have been into?”

  Romano suddenly looked offended. “Are you asking me if he was doing anything illegal?”

  “No. That’s not exactly what—”

  “Good. ’Cause that’s the kind of question that would really piss me off right now.” Romano was getting agitated. She shifted in her seat and took a breath. “You know, you haven’t told me why you think Lauren was innocent. I know she found out Tyler was still cheating on her. Hell, he was only staying with her because he loved that little boy so much. Don’t you think she could’ve been mad enough to do it when she found out?”

  “No. After Miss Bailey died…” Rachel hated saying it that way, as if she was trying to make it sound like some freak accident or sudden illness, like Bailey had been struck by falling plane wreckage or consumed by flesh-eating bacteria. Anything other than Rachel shooting her eight times in the chest. “… a friend of hers came forward. She had a number of private messages they had shared on Facebook. It seems Lauren was cheating on Tyler as well. With more than one person. She wanted to break up with him, but she was dragging it out. Trying to get as much money out of him as she could. But she said that was starting to get old. She said it wasn’t worth the money anymore, and she had fallen in love with one of the other guys she was seeing.”

  Romano started to cry. She wiped her eyes, and the look of annoyance vanished from them.

  Rachel said, “We thought she was angry and jealous. We thought that gave her motive. We were wrong.”

  “Yeah. I guess you were.”

  Rachel decided it was time to try for the journals. “Kristy, do you remember the notebooks Tyler kept? The ones where he wrote things down about his deployments?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you still have them?”

  Romano sat quietly for a moment, as if considering whether or not she wanted to answer. Then she stood up and walked away, disappearing into a bedroom. Rachel heard closet doors being opened. The sound of boxes being pulled from shelves and dropped to the floor. When Romano came back a few minutes later, she was carrying one. She laid it on the coffee table, opened it, and withdrew five composition notebooks. She eased herself back onto the love seat, holding them against her chest.

  “I read through them, you know.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes again. “There’s things in here … awful things. The kind of stuff you hear soldiers talk about and you’re glad you never have to see it for yourself.” She looked up as if struck by some horrible thought. “You don’t think he could’ve…”

  “What?” Rachel asked.

  Romano looked like she was about to burst into a crying fit. “What if he…?”

  “It’s okay.” She tried to sound reassuring, hoping Romano could hold it together. “What if he what?”

  “What if he killed himself?”

  Rachel shook her head. “That’s not what happened.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, I know you think he was murdered, but you hear about soldiers doing it all the time. I’ve seen it on Facebook. They say twenty-two vets kill themselves every day. Twenty-two. You don’t think there’s even a chance?”

  “No.” Rachel’s mind started recalling the evidence. Proof that Larson had been the victim of a homicide. There was the lack of powder burns or a star-shaped wound on his temple, which told her that the gun had not been held directly against his head. There was a gap in the back-spatter pattern, where the blood from the entry wound had sprayed whoever had been sitting in the passenger seat. Then there was Corey Staples, the witness Parker had discovered. And, of course, Parker’s kidnapping and murder, which only made sense if someone was desperate to cover up the crime. “Trust me. Your brother didn’t take his own life.”

  Romano looked relieved. She took a deep breath, wiped her cheeks and patted her eyes. “And your friend … you’re sure whoever killed him is the one that…?”

  “Whoever it was, I’m sure they’re involved.”

  “Well…” She leaned forward and handed Rachel the notebooks. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but whatever it is, I hope you find it.”

  Rachel opened one and read the inside of the front cover. Larson’s name and rank and unit number. The writing triggered something in her mind. Some thought or memory that didn’t make sense.

  “I can’t imagine who would’ve wanted to hurt Tyler,” Romano said. “He never had any enemies as far as I know.”

  Rachel closed the book and gave Romano a sympathetic look. “Thank you, Kristy. I’ll get these back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t,” she said, eyeing them. “I’ll be too tempted to read them again if you do. I’d rather not do that. You keep them. Or throw them away, if you want to. Just don’t bring them back here.”

  TWENTY

  Rachel was sitting in a gas station parking lot, sipping on a Monster Energy and reading one of Larson’s journals, when Braddock called.

  “Someone kicked the hell outta your front door,” he said. “No one seems to have seen anything, though. The neighbors didn’t even know you had a break-in.”

  “Figures,” she said. “My gun safe?”

  “Gone. He must’ve just taken it someplace where he could cut it open.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Rachel was relieved that she hadn’t simply
left it unlocked, though it didn’t really matter at this point.

  “I got through to one of the guys on the burglary team. He says he knows me from our patrol days, but I can’t remember him to save my life. Anyway, he’s on his way over with a tech. You know he’ll wanna talk to you.”

  “Give him my number.”

  “Have you thought about talking to anyone in homicide? We still have a few friends there. Might not be a bad idea to get them on your side.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” she said. “I’m not ready yet.”

  “All right.”

  There was concern in his voice. She could tell he was worried, afraid that she was making a mistake, though he wasn’t ready to say so just yet.

  He asked, “What are you up to?”

  She told him about her visit with Romano and the notebooks.

  “You’re reading them now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Find anything good?”

  “Not yet,” she said with a sigh.

  “Well, keep me posted.”

  “Are you heading back?”

  “I’ll wait around for a bit. See if the tech happens to find anything interesting.”

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  She went back to the journal. The oldest of the five, written during Larson’s first summer in Afghanistan, from June to September 2012. Most of the days had passed uneventfully. Training exercises and patrols and frustrating encounters with local tribesmen. Weeks of boredom in harsh living conditions, surrounded by teenagers who were expected to do the kind of work that older men shied away from.

  Suddenly, there would be an incident. Mortars fired from some hill in the distance. A grenade lobbed over a wall. A sniper that no one could pinpoint. “Asymmetrical warfare” was the term. Attacks that got men injured, sometimes killed, but too often went unanswered.

  Larson had been a staff sergeant back then. A squad leader in charge of eight soldiers. His boys, as he had called them. The hardest part of his job seemed to be keeping their morale up and their frustration in check. Especially near the midway point of their tour, when the attacks became more frequent.