Down the Broken Road

by J. R. Backlund

  Excavation was forbidden on historical sites. There would be no construction here for the foreseeable future. No one to disturb the grounds and discover the remains that Stoller was putting to rest.

  When he started, he was planning to go six feet deep, but he got too tired and had to stop short. Standing in the hole, the ground level was at the center of his chest, and he decided that was good enough. He climbed out and pushed Martin in, then filled in the hole and smoothed it out. Once he thought the ground looked even enough, he started replacing the sod rectangles, a jigsaw puzzle of grass. He hoped it would look right in the daylight. In a few days, the roots would take hold, and no one would be able to tell that he’d been there.

  Stoller clicked off his flashlight, stared at the wet grass, and said, “Good-bye, brother.”

  In the Army, your fellow soldiers were your family. You depended on them for your survival. You loved and hated one another, but protected each other all the same. It was a bond more powerful, more real, than shared genetics. And Stoller had just broken it.

  When he’d killed Larson, he’d felt justified. CID had been investigating the shooting in Guldara, and Larson was working with them to betray his brothers. Stoller had been happy to do the job. But since then, he’d found something even more important to protect. Regardless of his duty to his squad, Martin’s gunshot wound had put that in danger.

  So he had fired without hesitation. The cold calculus of minimizing risk had demanded such action. Swift and dispassionate. But now, standing at Martin’s graveside, he allowed himself to feel it. And the weight of his emotions overcame him. He fell to his knees and wept, even though he knew, no matter how much it hurt, he had done what was necessary.

  * * *

  Stoller went back to the barn and cleaned himself up. Gordon had managed to climb onto the bed before passing out again. He woke up and started complaining about his leg. Stoller offered to set it back in place, but Gordon refused.

  “I need a hospital,” he said.

  Stoller examined the twisted limb. “Yeah, it looks pretty fucked up.”

  “Bitch did a number on me, man.”

  “That’s what you get for trying to do this shit without me. Now hang on, and I’ll bring the car around.”

  Gordon mumbled something unintelligible and nodded off.

  Stoller went out to the Charger and drove it right up to the door. He opened the passenger side and laid the seat back down, then went inside and collected Gordon. As he carried him out, Gordon’s leg dangled loosely. It bumped the doorjamb, and Gordon woke with a yell.

  “Sorry, Flash,” Stoller said. “We’re almost there.”

  He set him in the seat gingerly and buckled him up. Then he got in and drove him to the emergency room at the Carolinas Medical Center on the east end of town.

  The admitting nurse came out to the car and stared at Gordon’s leg with wide eyes. “What happened to him?”

  “He fell in a hole and twisted it.”

  She looked at him in disbelief, then made a note on a clipboard. She knelt down and said, “Just sit tight, baby; we’re going to have to put you in a gurney.”

  He moaned and mumbled.

  She stood and leaned toward Stoller and whispered, “Is he on anything?”

  “I think he might’ve taken some old painkillers he had lying around.”

  She made another note and went inside.

  Gordon opened his eyes and said, “Stoller … you gotta call my mom. You gotta tell her I’m here.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, man. Please.”

  “If that’s what you want,” he said, “I’ll do it. But you know she’s not going to be happy.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Hughes turned into the parking lot of the abandoned gas station and went around to the back. A Union County sheriff’s deputy was sitting in his patrol car with the door open and his leg hanging out. As Hughes approached, he asked, “You the detective from Siler City?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Well, sorry to tell you, but your girl was long gone by the time we got here.”

  “Figures.” Hughes clicked on a tiny flashlight and started looking over the Tacoma.

  The deputy climbed out of his patrol car and shuffled over. “Looks like someone rear-ended her pretty good.”

  He aimed the light at the bent license plate and took a picture with his smartphone. “Any calls about it?”

  “Nope. ’Course, I guess that makes sense when you think about it.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “Well … whoever hit her wouldn’t have wanted us to get involved. And she sure as hell wasn’t gonna call.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Hughes crouched down to get a closer look at the tailgate. “Let me ask you something. Have you worked a lot of traffic accidents?”

  “I seen my share. Why?”

  “It seems to me that an impact like this would have to come from an angle.” He stood and motioned with his hand. “If she was hit from behind, that is.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “So a vehicle moving fast enough to do that kind of damage, striking at that angle, wouldn’t have just stopped in its tracks. Both vehicles would’ve bounced away from each other.” He used both hands to demonstrate. “Sort of like when you’re playing pool and the cue ball hits one of the other balls at an angle.”

  “Okay?”

  “That would’ve left horizontal scratches as the other vehicle tore away.” He shined the light on the tailgate and the bumper. “See any of those here?”

  The deputy clicked on his own flashlight, ran it over the back of the truck, and said, “All right, so what do you think did this?”

  Hughes moved around to the driver’s side and scanned the bed, then looked inside the cab. “I’d say she was probably running in reverse and hit something that was sitting still. There’s a few flecks of paint in the tailgate and some chrome on the bumper, so it was most likely another vehicle.”

  “Well, hell,” the deputy said, crouching down and squinting, “if she’d have hit me like that, I definitely would’ve called it in.”

  Hughes came back around and saw the deputy reaching out to flick a chip off the bumper. “Please don’t touch that.”

  He stood and backed away, looking embarrassed. “I guess you want me to call in our crime scene unit?”

  “No, actually, I’d just like you to sit here and make sure no one touches this thing until the SBI crime scene search unit I called shows up.”

  Hughes stepped away and called Morrison to let her know what he’d found. She was home now, getting ready for bed. She asked, “Any idea whose truck it is?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “I’ll get them to run the plate for me.”

  “Not if you don’t play nice, you won’t.”

  * * *

  A half hour later, the Union County sheriff was sitting on the corner of his desk, looking down at Hughes as he said, “I hear you were kinda short with my deputy out there.”

  Hughes gave him his best conciliatory smile and said, “I’m sorry, Sheriff. It’s been a long day. I feel like I’ve been running all over the state of North Carolina trying to figure out why my friend was shot and killed yesterday.”

  The sheriff looked down and changed his tone. “Well, I’m real sorry about that, Detective.” He went back to his chair. “Obviously, we want to assist you in any way we can.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. Can you spare a deputy to escort me around while I do some digging?”

  He gave a deep nod. “Absolutely. What kind of digging, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “My suspect questioned a guy at a bar in Fayetteville, then took off and headed this way. Turns out a few names came up. Two of them, a gentleman named Riley Gordon and a gentleman named Colin Stoller; both live in this area. I’d like to talk to them, if I can?”

  “All right,” he said with another nod. “Let’s see if we can’t dig ’em up for you. I’l
l get one of my boys to carry you around town.”

  * * *

  It turned out to be a frustrating night for Hughes. He rode with the deputy to Stoller’s house first. No one was home, and the neighbors said he was gone a lot. Whenever he was there, he kept to himself. They didn’t know much about him except that he was quiet and could intimidate the hell out of someone by just glancing at them.

  Next, they drove to Gordon’s apartment in the heart of Monroe. He had a better reputation with his neighbors, but none of them knew where he was. They said during hunting season, he would take off and stay at some property he had just outside of town. It was too early for hunting, but maybe he had gone there.

  With the deputy yawning and Hughes feeling spent, they gave up and went back to the sheriff’s office. Hughes wanted to try again in the morning after a good night’s sleep. The deputy agreed, and they parted ways.

  A few miles outside of town, Hughes found a Hampton Inn and got a room. He’d brought his toothbrush and a change of clothes with him when he’d left for Fayetteville, just in case. He was grateful he didn’t have to go shopping. He had a hot shower and put on a late-night talk show as he lounged in bed. It seemed like he had just started to fall asleep when the phone woke him in the morning.

  He opened one eye and checked the time on the alarm clock. It was a little after 9 AM. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, then held it up to read the screen.

  Rachel Carver.

  He sat up and answered, suddenly wide awake.

  “Hello, Detective,” she said. “Is there any chance you’re in Monroe this fine morning?”

  “Um … well…”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. If you feel like having a nice breakfast, I’d recommend the Skinny Hen Diner on Main Street. But you’d better hurry. You’ve got ten minutes. Come alone.”

  “Ten minutes? I don’t even know where it is. Hello…?”

  She was gone. He jumped up and scrambled to get dressed. Then he typed the name of the diner into Google Maps and checked the directions as he slid on his shoes. He was out the door with eight minutes to spare.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Rachel was standing on the corner of Windsor and Beasley, two blocks away from the Skinny Hen. She couldn’t see it, but she had Braddock on the phone. He was inside, seated at the bar, sipping coffee and keeping an eye on Gulani. They had followed him there from his house, then split up as he’d gone inside for a table.

  “Hughes should be there any minute now,” she said.

  “Good,” Braddock said in a low voice. “Sigmund just got his order in.”

  Braddock had chosen the code name. Sigmund Freud wasn’t the most creative reference for a therapist under surveillance, but it was adequate for their needs.

  “I gotta tell you,” he said, “this guy sure as hell doesn’t look like any kind of drug kingpin I’ve ever seen.”

  “Who did you expect him to look like? Tony Montana?”

  “Hey, there’s a code name.”

  “It is better than Sigmund.”

  “Yeah … wait. I got something. I think our detective friend is here. He just rushed in. He’s looking around for you. Now he’s going back outside.”

  “I’ll call you back.” She got off the phone with Braddock and called Hughes. He answered, and she said, “Glad you could make it.”

  “I don’t see you,” he said.

  “That’s because I’m not there.”

  She heard him exhale sharply into the phone. “I’m not in the mood to play games, Miss Carver.”

  “I don’t blame you, Detective. You lost a fellow officer, and I lost a friend. I promise you, we’re on the same side. If you want to figure this out, then let me help you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The man you’re looking for is named Colin Stoller. He killed Bryce and Ramirez and set me up. But he’s not working alone. There are at least three others involved.”

  “Let me guess, Seth Martin, Riley Gordon, and who? Austin Buckley?”

  “Not Buckley, but you’re right about the other two. They abducted me last night. They were going to dose me, just like they tried to do with Bryce, but I managed to escape.”

  “That’s quite a story,” he said. “Can you prove any of it?”

  “I’m working on it, but I could use some help, if you don’t mind.”

  He laughed. “Miss Carver, I’m more inclined to arrest you than to help you at this point.”

  “That’s understandable. So how about we make a deal. You question my third suspect in this conspiracy, and I’ll tell you exactly where you can find the gun Stoller used to kill Bryce and Officer Ramirez.”

  “Okay,” he said, sounding cautiously intrigued by the idea. “Are you telling me you have the murder weapon and you’ve been keeping it from the law enforcement officers investigating this case?”

  “It’s not quite that simple.”

  “Jesus.” He was quiet while he considered her offer. “All right, Miss Carver, I’ll bite. Who’s your third suspect, and where do I find him?”

  “His name is Manish Gulani, and he’s sitting in the diner, by himself in the third booth on the right when you walk through the door.”

  “Manish Gulani…” She got the sense that he was walking inside to look for him. His voice was lower when he asked, “What exactly am I supposed to ask him?”

  “I went to see him last night. I wanted to know about a murder victim who was a former patient of his. That victim also served in the Army with our other suspects. He told me where to find the information I was looking for, but when I got there, Gordon was waiting for me. He told me Gulani sent him.”

  “So … you want me to just walk up to him and ask if he arranged to have you kidnapped and murdered last night?”

  “I’ll trust you to figure that out, Detective. You’ve gotten this far.”

  She hung up. A few seconds later, she got a text from Braddock. HE’S SITTING DOWN.

  * * *

  Hughes slid into the booth, holding up his badge and ID.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gulani. Mind if I join you?”

  Gulani had a forkful of food an inch away from his mouth. He froze and stared wide-eyed at the badge. A wedge of wet egg fell and slapped the edge of his plate before tumbling into his lap. He put his utensils down, grabbed a napkin, and tried to clean it up. But his eyes kept darting up to Hughes and the ID.

  “Um … what can I do for you, Officer?”

  “Detective,” Hughes said, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. “I need to know if you’ve had any contact with a woman named Rachel Carver.”

  He looked around quickly. “I suppose I have, yes.”

  “And when was that, exactly?”

  His eyes went to the table. “It was the day before yesterday.”

  “Friday?”

  “Yes, sir. She came to the treatment center where I work. She wanted to talk to me about a former patient of mine.”

  “Uh-huh.” Hughes was studying Gulani’s expression. “And you haven’t seen her since?”

  Gulani looked around again, glanced at Hughes, and then put his eyes back on the table. He was trying to think of something to say.

  “I already know she came to see you last night. So you might want to think carefully about what you say next, in case you’re thinking of lying to me.”

  “I don’t think I should be talking to you,” he said.

  “You don’t think so, huh?” Hughes smelled blood. He decided to try a gambit. “Well, that’s up to you, but I gotta tell you, silence might not be your best option right now. You see, Miss Carver turned up dead this morning, and as far as I can tell, you might’ve been the last one to see her alive.”

  Gulani looked shocked. His head started shaking. “What? No … I don’t … I don’t know anything about what you are saying.”

  Hughes reached over to his plate and grabbed a sausage link. “You have a good day, Mr. Gulani. We’ll be in touch.”

  H
e took a bite of the sausage and stood from the booth.

  “Wait,” Gulani said.

  Hughes was headed for the door. Gulani jumped up and dug his wallet out of his pocket, dropped a twenty on the table, and hurried after him.

  * * *

  Rachel answered her phone, and Braddock said, “That was interesting.”

  “What happened?”

  “They talked for a minute, then Hughes got up to leave, and Gulani ran after him. They’re outside now.”

  Rachel wanted to start walking that way to see for herself, but she knew that would be a bad idea. She didn’t want to risk Hughes spotting her. “Are they talking?”

  “Yep. Looks like Gulani’s desperate to set the record straight about something.”

  There was a scream.

  Braddock said, “What the … shit!”

  “Danny? Danny, what is it?”

  The line was dead. In the direction of the diner, Rachel heard the pop and roar of a gunshot.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Screams and gunfire. People running from the vicinity of the diner. A minivan sped up the street, the terrified woman behind the wheel trying desperately to maneuver it away from danger while yelling at a child to get down.

  Rachel was running toward the shots. She squeezed her way through a group of churchgoers fleeing the chaos and pulled the .380 from her hip. She got to the corner of Main and went straight for a black sedan parked on the side of the street, crouching down next to the front wheel on the passenger side.

  The screams had stopped. There was a moment of calm, and Rachel peeked over the hood to see if she could spot the shooter. Directly across the street, a man was crawling beneath a large pickup truck. A couple was huddled in the recessed entrance of a store. A woman, sitting on the curb with a child in her arms, scrambled to her feet and ran for the corner.

  A shot made Rachel duck. There was a sharp crack, followed by the echo of the report as it reverberated off the buildings. She realized it had come from further up the street. The violence had shifted away from the front of the diner. She stayed low and moved to the rear wheel and carefully looked over the trunk.