Down the Broken Road

by J. R. Backlund

  “When I watched you go into that house…” He stopped himself, knowing he didn’t have to explain how hard it had been for him. “I would never ask you to change who you are. And let’s face it, you’re always going to be that person who rushes into danger without thinking. Without caring about who else you’d be hurting if something bad happened to you. But I want you to know, if you need me, I’ll always be there to back you up. As your friend.”

  She felt her breath taken from her. There was pain in her chest, an empty feeling in her stomach. She wanted him to change his mind. She wanted to make promises she could never keep. Then she looked in his eyes and saw a glimmer of hope.

  He said, “On the other hand, should you decide that you’ve had enough of being a hero … I can’t say I’ll wait around forever, but you know where to find me, if you don’t take too long.”

  She smiled, and they hugged again. Then she gathered her plastic bags and carried them out to her car while he stood on the driveway and admired her. They allowed for one more embrace and a quick kiss before she drove away. She spent the entire ride thinking about him and what he had said.

  * * *

  Back home in her apartment, Rachel felt lost. There was still work to be done on the most important case of her life, but she wasn’t involved in any part of it. The only thing she could do was go back to work for Dunn. At the moment, though, he was insisting that they wait for approval from the Office of Indigent Services, lest he be obligated to pay her out of his own pocket. She told him she would work for free until OIS returned an answer, but he said she’d done enough of that already.

  She found herself wishing she could simply put the case behind her, but that was an impossibility. Even if she could have changed her obsessive nature, the reporters wouldn’t let her move on. In the days that followed, she received numerous calls from them, all hoping to be the first to break through, to get an exclusive with the woman at the heart of this sweeping investigation.

  The only person she was willing to talk to from the media was Parker’s editor, Cara Marsh. Rachel insisted that their conversation be off the record. And Marsh agreed, anxious to understand exactly what had happened to her colleague and why. When they finished their call, Rachel was more frustrated than ever.

  She thought about Braddock and what he had said. What it had meant to have him shine a light on her biggest flaw—her need to understand. She had to do whatever it took to get to the truth. Answers were even more important than her personal safety. She had demonstrated that on numerous occasions. There would never be a time when she could let go of that. If given the opportunity, she would march right back into that house to face Stoller all over again, if only it meant being able to tell Parker’s family and friends and coworkers exactly what he had died for.

  There was a knock on Rachel’s door.

  It almost didn’t register as she sat there at her kitchen table, her phone in her hand, buried in her thoughts. Another series of knocks came, this time a little louder. She stood and went to look through the peephole. She didn’t recognize the man on the other side.

  She cracked open the door. “Can I help you?”

  The man was stocky with sun-spotted skin. He had blond hair that was cropped to his scalp on the sides with a thick mass on the top neatly combed in one direction. He wore khakis and a collared shirt. Carried himself with a stiff air.

  “Hello, Miss Carver. I’m Warrant Officer Tim Vance. I’m with the Tenth Military Police Battalion of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Command. I was wondering if I might have a word with you?”

  She invited him in and led him to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and retrieved a can of Mountain Dew. “Can I offer you a soda or something?”

  “I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you, though.”

  “So what can I do for you, Warrant Officer Vance?”

  “To be honest,” he said. “I’ve come to get you off the bench.”

  He gave her a thin smile, letting his words work on her for a moment.

  “Motherfucker!”

  She slammed the door to the fridge, and his smile disappeared.

  “Let me explain—”

  “You’re Grant’s mystery client,” she said, tightening her grip on the can. “You started this shit.”

  He put his hands up and took a step back, eyeing the soda like he expected her to throw it at him. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Well … okay, yeah it is, but there’s a good reason why I did what I did.”

  Grant’s text resurfaced in her memory, the feeling she’d had when she’d read it. “You’d better. Especially the part where you could’ve clued me in on what this case was all about from the beginning. You are, after all, the CID investigator looking into the Guldara shooting, aren’t you?”

  “I am now. Thanks to you and the media coverage you’ve been getting, the Army has decided to reopen the case.”

  “What do you mean, reopen it?”

  “Miss Carver, you have to understand, Sergeant Larson’s accusations would have been very embarrassing for the Army. Once he was killed, I tried to push it, but they took the case away from me. They said the shooting involved a Taliban weapons cache, so they were classifying it as a terrorism investigation. That meant that it had to be handed over to Counterintelligence, and I wasn’t permitted to discuss it with anyone.”

  “You mean, they tried to cover it up,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Rachel walked to her kitchen table and sat down, willing her anger to subside. “Keep talking.”

  “I admired Sergeant Larson for trying to bring those men to justice. When I read Mr. Parker’s article about you, I knew what had happened. At first, I wanted to go straight to the police, but a friend convinced me that would be too reckless. So I hired Mr. Grant to act as a messenger.”

  “So you could be protected by attorney–client privilege.”

  He nodded. “Also to defend me in case I got caught sharing classified information. And then I had him contact Mr. Parker on deep background to give him some context for his story.”

  “That’s how he knew to go after Adam Hubbard.”

  “That’s correct. And when I heard Mr. Parker had been abducted, I knew it was time to reach out to you.”

  Rachel didn’t know whether to thank him or curse him. Suddenly, she realized he was there to do more than just confess. “What did you mean by ‘get me off the bench’?”

  “I thought you’d want to know that the Union County Sheriff’s Office and the DA are ready to clear Riley Gordon as a suspect in Private Hubbard’s murder.”

  “What?” Rachel nearly jumped out of her chair. “Why the hell would they do that?”

  “It’s a difficult thing for a prosecutor to admit that they’ve made a mistake.”

  “But after everything that’s happened, they’re not even going to try?”

  “Sometimes it only takes one piece of evidence to convince you that you were right all along. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

  He turned and started for the door.

  Rachel went after him and asked, “Wait, how do you know this?”

  He stopped and turned. “We all have our sources.”

  She thought for a second and said, “Jensen told you, didn’t he? When he gave you Stoller’s confession?”

  His thin smile returned. “You have a good day, Miss Carver.”

  FORTY-SIX

  As soon as Vance left, Rachel was on the phone.

  “Hey there, Rachel,” Jensen said. “What can I do for ya?”

  “You can tell me what’s happening with the case against Gordon.”

  “Uh, well … we’re working with the sheriff’s office, getting up to speed on their investigation into the Hubbard murder.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  “It’s going.” He was trying to sound positive. “You know, it takes a little time to work these things out—
”

  “They’re not cooperating, are they?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say it quite like that.”

  “How would you say it, then?”

  “Well, you know how it is, Rachel … you gotta give these guys time to come around, you know? I mean, they thought they solved this case already, and now here we come trying to blow that right out of the water. I’ll tell ya, I think they’re actually being pretty good about it, all things considered.”

  “I doubt that’s any comfort to Kyle Strickland.” Rachel recalled what Vance had said: Sometimes it only takes one piece of evidence to convince you that you were right all along. She asked, “What aren’t you telling me, Mike?”

  “Beg your pardon? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. What do they have that makes them think Gordon didn’t do it?”

  Jensen didn’t answer.

  “Fine,” she said. “Maybe Ross will tell me what I need to know.”

  * * *

  SBI Headquarters was situated in a red-brick building that fronted a large campus, a spartan structure with rows of vertical windows and a low-sloped roof topped with a tiny octagonal cupola.

  Rachel parked in front and ran up the steps and inside. She checked in with the man at the front desk and waited while he called Penter’s office. She hadn’t bothered to call him herself. If he was here, he would see her. She had no doubt about that.

  “Just wait right here, ma’am,” the man said as he dropped the handset in the cradle. “Someone’s coming over to take you up.”

  A minute later, Jensen came through the front entrance wiping his brow with a kerchief. The Capital District Office where he worked was just a short hike away, but walking over in a suit on an August afternoon was bound to make him sweat. He spotted Rachel and tipped his head toward the stairway at the end of the hall.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  They went upstairs and halfway through the hall. Jensen waved at Penter’s assistant as they passed her outside his office. Once inside, Jensen went straight for a chair. Rachel approached slowly. Penter was leaning back in his seat, watching her walk toward him. Beneath his reserved veneer, there was a hint of pride—a repudiated father figure who nevertheless indulged in admiring his favorite child. It wasn’t all that different from the look Stoller had given her when he had decided to let her live.

  “Hello, Rachel,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Ross.” She sat down next to Jensen.

  “I understand Mike wasn’t very forthcoming with you on the phone earlier. You’ll have to forgive him for that. He’s just doing his job, of course.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  That made Penter chuckle. “Mike, I think Rachel would like to know why the detectives in Union County think our suspect is innocent of the Hubbard murder.”

  “Well,” Jensen said, “turns out they checked his phone records during the time frame. The GPS data puts him on the other side of town.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yep. They emailed me a copy. I went through it myself.”

  “Maybe he just left it somewhere.”

  “I don’t think so, Rachel. He was making calls on it and sending messages all throughout the day. Based on the timing of a couple of those calls, it would be physically impossible for him to get to and from the crime scene to where his phone was. I hate to say it, but it looks like he’s not our guy.”

  “What if he had Stoller or Martin making the calls for him? To give him an electronic alibi?”

  Penter asked, “Wouldn’t that ruin your narrative? That it was a fight that turned into a murder after Gordon lost his temper?”

  Rachel wanted to respond, but she couldn’t deny that it blew a hole in her theory.

  “The DA down there thinks they got it right the first time,” he said. “That Hubbard’s death was unrelated to the incident in Afghanistan.”

  “But that’s not what we’re thinking, Rachel.” Jensen seemed determined to reassure her. “We’re thinking it was Stoller or Martin who killed him. So we’re putting all of our energy into finding Martin. We figure that’s our best bet. We’re also working on getting a dump from the nearest cell tower to see if either of their numbers turns up in the area during that time.”

  Rachel’s mind was working, trying to make sense of what she was hearing.

  Penter said, “Mike, why don’t you give us a minute?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” he said. “Was good to see ya again, Rachel.”

  He got up and left them. As soon as he closed the door, Penter said, “How are you holding up?”

  She looked at him and suddenly felt drained. “I’m tired of not being done with all this.”

  “That’s understandable. This isn’t just some random case for you. It’s personal. Hell, it’s almost killed you twice within the past couple of weeks.”

  “You think I’m not seeing straight?”

  He shrugged. “I think you’re afraid to admit that this might actually be over already. That you got the bad guy, but you didn’t get the resolution you were hoping for. Stoller’s a good fit for Hubbard’s murder, if you take the time to think about it.”

  A surge of resentment welled up within her. “That’s what you said about Lauren Bailey.”

  “Yes, it is. I guess I owe you an apology for that.” His eyes looked down for a moment, and when they came back to her, there was repentance in them, something she had never seen there before. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I should have listened to you.”

  She didn’t know how to react. She had spent so much of her energy being angry with him. Forcing herself to hate the man she had once considered her mentor. There were times when she had imagined what she would say to him if she were given the opportunity to unload. Now, she couldn’t. He had taken away her justification with a few simple words. All that energy suddenly felt wasted.

  “Thank you, Ross,” was all she could say.

  They were silent for a while, and then he said, “I take it you spoke with our mutual friend from the Army?”

  “Was it you who told him to come see me?”

  “I may have done a little more than that.”

  “Don’t tell me you were the so-called friend who sent him to Grant.”

  “I didn’t want the guy to end up in Leavenworth,” he said. “Or wherever they send people who leak classified information these days.”

  “Did you know he would contact me?”

  “I probably suggested it at some point.”

  She sat back, looking a little impressed. “I don’t know what to say. I think maybe I’ve been a bad influence on you.”

  He laughed, then looked at her thoughtfully and said, “I’m glad nothing bad happened to you. As much as I wanted you to solve this thing, I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had gotten hurt.”

  A thought struck Rachel. Something about the word influence. About how people could be impacted by those they were closest to. By their friends and their family members. How they could adopt certain mannerisms or behaviors. Or pick up certain traits. Especially from their parents.

  “Ross,” she said, “it’s time to finish this.”

  “I’m open to any suggestions,” he said. “What are you thinking?”

  “Right now, I’m thinking about a bottle of pills.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  LeMay parked her Mercedes CLS 550 in front of Sharkie’s Food Market and looked around, hoping it would be safe there. It was a quarter till seven, which meant she had to sit and wait. She hated this part of town, even more so because of the people in it.

  There were kids smoking cigarettes by the store’s entrance. Teenagers looking to peddle marijuana or MDMA or meth, doing their best to contribute to the decline of their community. Maggots feeding off this decaying portion of Monroe. The City Council, despite its best efforts, could do nothing to revitalize it.

  She checked her watch every half minute. The wait was excruciating. When it s
howed five till, she’d had enough and stepped out of her car.

  Another rain had swept through town, cleansing the air. It was cool now, and wet. Everything seemed saturated. The soil was like a soaked sponge. Her first step off the pavement forced black water up around her trainers. They rarely saw use outside of her trips to the gym. When she heard the squishing of her steps and felt her feet turn cold, she decided she would need a new pair.

  She walked around to the back of the store and found the hole in the chain-link fence. She ducked and squeezed her way through. On the other side, she stood straight and looked around but saw no one. Slowly, she proceeded into the mill yard.

  The crumbled corner of the building loomed above her. She looked up into the cavity and saw a black void where there once had been a second floor. The timbers that had supported it looked like the ribs of a carcass, left bare where the red skin had fallen away. Those pieces of brick were strewn across the ground, half-buried by the soggy grass.

  She stepped on one of them, felt its hard edge through the sole of her shoe, and closed her eyes in painful memory. When she opened them again, she saw a mass of objects ahead. A patchwork of small rectangles laid out across the ground. Each was the size of a sheet of paper.

  She approached and saw them for what they were—photographs.

  She picked one up and examined it, recognizing the scene instantly. She was there now, standing right where that photo had been taken. The only thing missing from her real-life view was the body lying in the center of the picture. The body of Adam Hubbard.

  * * *

  Rachel stepped lightly behind LeMay. She was almost within arm’s reach when she said, “Hello, Doctor.”

  LeMay spun, startled. She put a hand on her chest and closed her eyes to compose herself.

  Rachel said, “I’ve heard that people who become therapists choose that line of work because they hope to fix something inside themselves. You think that’s true?”

  LeMay exhaled a sharp breath. “It can be.” She looked around at the rest of the photos, all taken from the crime scene and the autopsy, all showing Hubbard beaten to death. She dropped the one in her hand. “Is this some kind of twisted game you’re playing, Miss Carver?”