Down the Broken Road

by J. R. Backlund

  “Hmph.” She pointed across the street. “Well, he’ll be sittin’ over there at the bar. Just like he always is. When you see him, tell him not to forget to bring me home some chicken fingers.”

  Rachel thanked her and walked over, stopping at the edge of the parking lot to think about who or what she might find inside.

  The bar was called Chappy’s. The sign out front advertised billiards and darts, chicken wings and cheap beer. The windows were blacked out, but the door was propped open, inviting her in.

  She suddenly felt vulnerable. Unsure of herself. Alone, with no one to call for backup. She wasn’t going to let that stop her, though. She just needed a little extra security.

  She turned and went back to the Tacoma. She opened the door, reached under the driver seat, and grabbed the .380. Leaning into the cab, she ejected the magazine and checked it. It was full. She slid it back into place with a click, drew back on the slide to chamber a round, and flicked the safety up with her thumb.

  She shoved the weapon into the holster and looked around to make sure there were no eyes on her. It was all clear. She stood and lifted her shirt, clipped it to the waistband of her jeans and took a second to make sure it was hidden. Then she locked up the truck and headed for the bar.

  TWENTY-THREE

  It said NO SMOKING on the door, but the interior smelled like cigarettes. The wooden floor was dull and caked with layers of grime, sealed to its surface by the residue of spilled beer, wine, and mixed drinks. It grabbed at the soles of Rachel’s shoes, forcing her to rip them free with each step into the dank space.

  There were a dozen or so patrons seated at the bar. All but two of them were men. Rachel walked to the corner and looked toward each end. She spotted two candidates that fit her preconceived image of Austin Buckley, mostly because they were the right age.

  She walked behind one and leaned in. “Austin?”

  He turned slowly, looking confused.

  “Are you Austin?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Sorry.”

  She moved on. The other candidate was at the far end, rocking on the front legs of his stool and trying to get the bartender’s attention. He saw Rachel approach and flashed a crooked grin.

  “Hey, pretty girl,” he said. “Ain’t seen you in here before.”

  Rachel gave him a demure smile, acting like she wanted to walk past him.

  He rocked back, blocking her way. “You’re not leavin’, are you?”

  She glanced at the floor and giggled, trying to look embarrassed. Pointed at the door to the lady’s room.

  “Well, hurry on back, now. I’ll save you a seat.”

  “Leave her alone, Austin.”

  Rachel turned to see the bartender, a large woman with curly hair, glaring at him.

  “I ain’t done nothin’. We’re just talkin’.”

  “He botherin’ you, hon?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “Well, let me know if he does,” the woman said with a wink. “I’ll put him out on his skinny ass. Won’t be the first time, neither.”

  “I love you too, Missy,” Buckley said. Then he blew her a kiss.

  Rachel eased past him and went into the restroom. She stood by the door and waited for a minute, liking the idea that he had engaged her instead of the other way around. His guard would be down, at least in the beginning. When she went back to the bar, he was waiting.

  He hopped off his stool and grabbed the next one over. He pulled it closer to his and invited her to sit. “My lady,” he said with a little bow.

  Rachel offered a playful smile as she accepted. The bartender was eyeing him. He put his hands up and said, “Just talkin’, Missy. Nothin’ to see here.”

  She shook her head with disdain and asked Rachel, “What can I get ya?”

  “Maker’s, please. On the rocks.”

  Missy went to the bourbon shelf, and Buckley, looking impressed, said, “A woman after my own heart.”

  “What did you expect me to get?” Rachel asked.

  “Well, you know, pretty girls like you usually order wine. Like some sorta pinot something or other.”

  She leaned toward him, put her cheek to her shoulder. “You think I’m pretty?”

  “Hell yeah. You’re about the prettiest thing to walk into this joint in ages.”

  Missy poured the drink, set it down on a short stack of square napkins, and said, “Behave, Austin.”

  He waved her away and whispered to Rachel, “She acts like I’m a damn child molester or some shit. But I’m just a nice guy is all. I can’t help it that I like to talk to people. Everybody that comes in here is just grumpy as hell all the time.”

  “I know what you mean,” Rachel said. “This looks like the kind of place my ex would hang out at. He was always so serious all the time. I think he spent too much time in the Army.”

  “I was in the Army. Didn’t let ’em break me, though.”

  “You served?” she asked with a skeptical look.

  “Damn right, I did. One tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan.”

  “Shut up!” she said. “What unit?”

  He straightened up. “Badgers, baby. Five-twenty-fifth Parachute Infantry Regiment.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. She slapped his arm and said, “No way. My ex’s best friend was one of you guys.”

  “For real? What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”

  “Tyler Larson.”

  His face changed, like something had stolen his spirit. He stared at the beer between his hands and said, “Nah. Don’t think I ever heard of him.”

  “You haven’t?”

  He shook his head. “Lot of guys in the five-twenty-fifth.”

  “Yeah, but it’s kinda strange. I think he may have mentioned you before.”

  He glanced at her, then looked around. “I don’t think so.”

  She leaned a little closer. “Yeah, now that I think about it … he definitely mentioned you. Austin Buckley, right?”

  He looked around again. His expression became tense. He shifted away from her, kept his voice low, and said, “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’re full of shit. And we’re done talkin’.”

  Missy was a few feet away, washing glasses. She hadn’t heard the exchange. Rachel decided it was time to change the playing field. She stood, grabbed Buckley’s beer, and dumped it in his lap.

  “What the fuck?” he yelled.

  As soon as Missy looked over, Rachel slammed the empty mug on the bar and said, “Suck your own dick, you freaking pervert.” Then she turned and stormed for the exit, catching a glimpse of Missy’s irate face as she got to the door.

  Outside, Rachel moved to the side of the building, opened her jeans, and tucked in her shirt. She zipped and buttoned them back, making sure the pistol was visible on her hip, and waited.

  Buckley came outside a minute later and yelled, “To hell with this place, man.” He stuck his head back through the doorway. “Fuck all y’all.” He turned to walk back to his apartment, then saw Rachel and started for her. “I oughta backhand your sorry ass for this, you fuckin’ bitch.”

  Rachel put her hand on the gun. “I wouldn’t recommend that, Specialist Buckley.”

  That stopped him in his tracks. “Aw, shit. What the hell?” His eyes moved between her face and the gun. “You undercover CID or some shit?”

  Army Criminal Investigations, Rachel thought. That told her something. “Not exactly,” she said. “Why don’t we take a walk. I just have a few questions for you. Shouldn’t take long.”

  He hesitated. It looked like he was thinking about running.

  “I know where you live,” she said. “You’re not in any trouble. I just want to talk.”

  “Whatever. Ain’t like I got nothin’ better to do now.”

  She led him away from the door and toward the corner of the building. He leaned against the wall and pulled at the crotch of his jeans. “Better not have ruined my smokes,” he mumbled. He took a pack of
cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. He lit one with a smirk and asked, “So? What do you want?”

  “What made you think I was CID?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “You haven’t had any run-ins with them lately?”

  “Maybe. Why should I tell you? I thought the whole thing was … Shit, you’re from Counterintel, ain’t you?”

  She smiled, deciding there was no harm in misleading him.

  He said, “I knew this wasn’t just gonna go away.”

  She wanted to pounce. Wanted to ask him what he was talking about, but she had to restrain herself. Establishing a position of authority over him required her to pretend she already had the information she wanted. She had to work her way around the edges. Make him feel like he wasn’t giving away anything valuable. Pry it from him without letting him realize she was hearing it all for the first time. “When was the last time you spoke to CID?”

  “Not since the whole thing started,” he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “I only talked to that warrant officer one time.”

  “But you didn’t tell him everything you know, did you?”

  “Yes, hell, I did,” he said indignantly.

  “Then why am I still chasing my tail over this?” She let a little of her frustration show, and suddenly found it hard to contain. “Private Hubbard and Sergeant Larson aren’t the only people who’ve died. A reporter and a cop were killed over it. Just yesterday.”

  “Hey, I don’t know nothin’ about that, all right?”

  “Then tell me what you do know. Because right now, every member of your squad is in my crosshairs until I get to the truth.”

  “Man, this is some bullshit. I wasn’t even there when it happened.”

  “Convince me.” She took out the prepaid phone and opened the voice-recording app. She touched the red button and said, “Let’s go through it. From the beginning.”

  * * *

  Missy was stacking glasses when she heard someone yell for her. It was Roach—one of the regulars. His eyes were fixed on the TV above the liquor shelves.

  “Jesus American Christ, Missy. You gotta see this.”

  She wanted to ignore him. It was just about time for his daily rant, and she wasn’t in the mood. He liked to show up every day, right before the news came on. He’d drink Blue Moon and read the captions in silence until he had a good buzz going. Then he’d start in with his political commentary, which often turned into conspiracy-laced tirades about the federal government. Some of it was entertaining, but most of the time it was just plain annoying. The other regulars had taken to calling him Roach after he spent a solid week lecturing everyone about bug-out bags and doomsday prepping and how, despite everyone else’s faith in modern institutions, he’d be the only one left standing when the shit went down.

  “Missy, get over here.” His hand was waving furiously. “I’m serious, girl. You gotta see this.”

  “What is it, Roach?” she asked.

  He kept waving at her. A few of the other patrons were now staring at the TV as well. She sighed and walked over.

  “What are you all worked up about?”

  He pointed at the screen. “You can tell me I’m a damn fool, but don’t that look exactly like the woman that just went and dumped a beer in Austin’s lap?”

  “You’re a damn fool,” she said.

  Then she looked up.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “We was way on the other side of the village when it started,” Buckley said.

  “So I’ve heard,” Rachel lied. “Be more specific. I’m going to check your story against what you told CID. You’d better hope it hasn’t changed.”

  He rolled his eyes and flicked ash off his cigarette. “It was August eighteenth. We was in Guldara.”

  He paused and gave her a look that asked if she was satisfied.

  “That’s better,” she said, remembering the incident she’d read about in Larson’s journal. “Keep going.”

  “We was there lookin’ for a weapons cache. The village elders said some kids had found it hidden behind a ridge near a tree line to the south. The lieutenant took a squad to go check it out. We stayed behind to secure the village. Sergeant Larson sent four guys over to watch the road headin’ north into the hills. We’d heard some trucks had been spotted out there earlier that mornin’. Villagers said they was Taliban.”

  He took a long drag and slowly exhaled the smoke through his nose. It drifted up around his eyes, making him squint.

  “Couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes or so later,” he said. “All of a sudden, we heard shots comin’ from the north. Then we got the call. Seth came over the radio and said they had contact. Then we heard ’em returnin’ fire. Sergeant Larson was all like, ‘Fuckin’ move it, boys. Let’s go.’ And we hauled ass. But, by the time we got there…” He dropped the cigarette on the pavement and stamped it out. “They’d done shot that little bastard full of holes.”

  He stood silent and stared at the ground, and Rachel realized he was done with his story. Apparently, the CID investigation had been about the attack. Or the fire team’s response. There was something perfunctory about the way Buckley had said “little bastard.” A lack of indignation that she would’ve expected to hear in his voice. He seemed to be using those words out of habit, even though he was talking about a militant who had ambushed his friends. There was no anger. No sense that the shooter had gotten what he deserved. Perhaps Buckley doubted that was the case.

  “When you got there, what did you see, exactly?” Rachel asked.

  “They was all out in a field behind one of them mud farm huts, standin’ around the body.”

  “In the middle of a field? The attacker wasn’t behind cover?”

  He shook his head. “Sergeant Stoller said he just came across that field firin’ at ’em. Like he wasn’t afraid of shit. We all figured he was tryin’ to martyr himself.”

  “And who else was there?” Rachel knew she could look it up in Larson’s journal, but she wanted to keep Buckley talking. “Besides Sergeant Stoller?”

  “Just Seth and Riley and Adam.”

  She pulled the steno pad from her pocket and checked the list of names. “As in Seth Martin, Riley Gordon, and Adam Hubbard?”

  He nodded and said, “Yeah, Little Adam.”

  “Little Adam’s dead, you know.”

  He had to look away.

  “Same with Sergeant Larson,” she said. “Any idea who might be responsible for that?”

  He shrugged, refusing to make eye contact. “I heard his girlfriend done it.”

  “Yeah, and your buddy Adam was killed in a drug deal gone bad. Two out of nine people murdered in less than a year.”

  Rachel heard scuffling steps and turned to see a man exit the bar. He glanced over and saw her, did a double-take and froze. He stared for a second, then turned around and hurried back inside.

  She looked at Buckley and said, “I’d be careful, if I were you. Those aren’t very good odds.”

  She turned and walked away, rounded the corner, and crossed behind the building. Buckley shouted, “That’s it?” She ignored him, pulled her shirt free from her jeans, and covered the pistol on her hip.

  The road was clear when she emerged on the other side of the building. She started across it toward the Tacoma, still parked at Buckley’s apartment complex. She was halfway there when she heard a man’s voice yell, “Hey! You! Stop right there!”

  She picked up her pace, but the man was determined to catch her. She heard his footsteps grow louder as he jogged up behind her. A hand seized her shoulder and spun her around. She used the momentum to her advantage, letting her arms swing with the turn. Her left forearm knocked the man’s hand off her shoulder while her right hand shot up toward his nose. The heel of her palm found it with a crunch, and he staggered back, cupping his face in his hands.

  Blood seeped between the man’s fingers. He looked at them, spit a red splotch on the pavement, and growled, “Crazy f
uckin’ bitch.” He reared back, like he might try to hit her, but stopped short when he saw the gun pointed at his chest.

  “Walk away,” Rachel said, dropping the safety with a flick of her thumb. “Turn around and walk away.”

  He stood his ground. His eyes were fixed on hers. They seemed to be questioning whether she had the nerve to pull the trigger.

  Missy ran up with her hands in the air. “Whoa now, everybody just calm down.” She grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him back. “Come on, Roach. It ain’t worth it.” Then to Rachel, she said, “You ought to go on and get outta here. I done called the cops. They’re on the way.”

  Rachel glanced past them. A crowd had gathered by the entrance to the bar. Buckley was among them. She looked at Missy, then at Roach, and kept her gun leveled on his chest as she backed away. She reached the edge of the road, turned, and ran for the truck, shoving the pistol back in its holster as she got to the driver’s side. She jumped in, started the engine, and tore out of the parking lot.

  Once she was on the road, she checked the rearview. People were gathering around Missy and Roach. She turned at the next intersection, went two blocks, and turned again.

  In the distance, a siren blared.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rachel was speeding down a residential street when Braddock called. He was still at her apartment with the Raleigh PD crime scene tech, who, apparently, was on the verge of losing his mind.

  “I’ve got him printing every square inch of this place,” Braddock said. “I can see it in his eyes. This guy wants to kill me.”

  Rachel was hoping to find a highway soon. She turned a blind corner and nearly spun out. She put Braddock on speaker and set the phone down so she could grip the wheel with both hands. Then she told him about her interviews with Martin and Buckley, though she chose to leave out the part where she had smashed a guy’s face and threatened him with Braddock’s gun.

  There was a long silence, and she asked, “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Sorry, I’m just … I mean, damn, Rachel, what the hell is this? Army CID and Counterintelligence?”