The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel

by James Cook

  “Dad, please,” I repeated. “You’re not making things any better.” I turned to Morgan. “It’s okay. I’ll stay here for now. Just leave me some water, and let me know what you find out, okay?”

  “I can do that.”

  “And Dad, just stay at the camp. Or better yet, go be with Lauren.”

  It was as if I had stuck a needle in a balloon. The fists unclenched, the eyes closed, the shoulders sagged. He leaned down and put his head in his hands and sighed in helpless frustration. “You’re right. Are you sure you’re okay in here, son?”

  “Like I said, just leave me some water.”

  They did, and left. Morgan posted another guard, just one this time, and I had the impression he was there to keep people out rather than to keep me in. He was a young private, maybe about my age, with the big round red-cheeked face of a Nebraska farm boy. There were a few attempts on his part to strike up a conversation—a soldier’s go-to method to pass the time on a boring watch—but after a few grunts and monosyllabic answers from me, he gave it up.

  I did not feel like talking.

  *****

  I could see through the exit the sky was overcast, which explained why it didn’t get too hot that day. The weak sun cast pale shadows on the ground outside the truck, slowly moving them from right to left, telling me I was facing south. The shadows began to lengthen until about 1600 when Travis showed up with my father. The guard left, and the two men stepped in.

  Once again, Dad brought food. They gave me time to wolf it down before launching into the conversation.

  “So what did you find out, Detective?” I asked.

  He opened a notebook and said, “I need you to answer some questions first.”

  “Okay.”

  He asked me to repeat the statement I had given Captain Morgan. Then he asked me to repeat it again. He asked me questions, some of them direct, some of them obviously baited.

  One of the classic methods of interrogation is to give someone enough rope to hang them with, then pull the noose tight. My father had taught me a thing or two about it, but I wasn’t worried. There was no need to be. I had the truth on my side.

  Half an hour later, Holzman made a final notation in his book, then set it down and looked me in the eye. “Here’s what I’ve come up with so far. After the incident yesterday when two of Sergeant Farrell’s men were killed, Captain Morgan relieved him of command of his squad and put him under armed guard pending arrival in Colorado. He was facing charges for dereliction of duty, among other things. I interviewed his men, as well as your father and those friends of yours who were there. Long story short, things weren’t looking too good for Sergeant Farrell. Compounding this, there was the altercation between Farrell and your father.” He gestured at Dad. “From what I gathered, he blamed Mr. Hicks for the trouble he ran into.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “My father didn’t hold a gun to his head and force him to get his men drunk. Soldiers aren’t allowed to drink on duty for a very good reason. You ask me, they probably botched the job clearing the trailer. Didn’t follow procedure. If they had, those two men would probably still be alive.”

  Holzman nodded. “I stand to agree. Farrell struck me as the kind of person who likes to blame all his problems on everyone except the responsible party—himself.”

  “You said he was under armed guard,” Dad chimed in. “How did he manage to get away from them?”

  Holzman sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There was only one guard on duty at the time. He tried to say Farrell overpowered him and knocked him unconscious, but the only injury the medics found was a black eye. Now I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve never seen someone get knocked out by a punch to the eye. So I braced the kid, and after sweating him for an hour, he finally confessed that Farrell had bribed him into letting him go.”

  “Bribed him?” I asked. “With what?”

  Holzman let out another sigh, his jaded cop eyes red around the edges. “The location of a case of Jack Daniels whiskey stashed in one of the HEMTTs. Farrell punched the kid in the face to make it look legit, then set his escape plan into motion.”

  “He was going to desert,” Dad said.

  Holzman nodded. “Somewhere on the way up here through Texas, Farrell found a dirt bike and talked a HEMTT driver into letting him stash it with the other cargo. Near as I can tell, the first thing he did was retrieve the bike, slip past the guards on the western edge of the circle, and then hide it a few hundred yards away, along with a big can of fuel. One of the patrols found it a couple of hours ago. Afterward, he snuck back into the camp, found a can of salt somewhere, and used it to convince Lauren he wanted to trade.”

  “So this was retaliation,” Dad said, a desolate look on his face. “For what I did to him. This whole thing is because of me.”

  “Absolutely not.” Holzman turned to my father. “Listen, this is Farrell’s fault and no one else’s. He’s the one who committed the crime.” The detective shot me a meaningful glance. “And he paid for it with his life.”

  “But If I’d …”

  “No, Dad,” I said. “Detective Holzman is right. What happened to Lauren was not your fault, so don’t start blaming yourself. Right now you need to forget about all that and focus on what you need to do to help Lauren heal from this.”

  Dad nodded quietly, but he did not meet my eyes.

  “What about the soldier who helped Farrell escape?” I asked. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “Morgan arrested him and placed him under armed guard. You ask me, I think he’s in deep shit. Desertion has become such a big problem the Army has authorized commanding officers to summarily execute any deserters they catch, as well as any active duty personnel caught aiding and abetting.”

  Dad’s eyes widened. “Summary execution? Jesus. Back in my day, they busted you down, took half your pay for two months, gave you 45 days of restriction and extra duty, and then rolled you out of the Army. Things must be pretty bad if they’re executing people.”

  “That’s the impression I got too,” Holzman said. “The soldier, a kid named Stanhouse, will be going before Captain Morgan this afternoon. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

  “So what about me,” I asked. “Am I free to go now?”

  “You are. Farrell attacked your stepmother, then tried to kill you. Compound that with the evidence he intended to desert from the Army, and I think we have a pretty clear-cut case of justifiable homicide. But I would steer clear of any military personnel until after the trial later this afternoon. The facts will come out then, and hopefully that will calm things down.”

  “Understood.”

  Holzman stood up and led the way out of the truck. I jumped down and stretched cramped muscles, grateful to be out of the vehicle’s confines. The detective shook hands with my father, then with me.

  “Thank you, Detective,” I said. “I know we’ve had our problems, but … you’re a good policeman. I’m sorry about what happened a few days ago.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “I overreacted to the situation. I should never have threatened you the way I did.” He cast a long look around the camp, the soldiers milling about, the people from the RV encampment going about their tasks, the smoke of cook fires hanging in the air. He ran a worried hand across his face. “Things have gotten pretty bad, there’s no denying that. But it doesn’t give me a license to take the law into my own hands. I swore an oath, and no matter how dark the road gets, I intend to keep it.”

  “Well, good luck to you on that one,” Dad said. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  Holzman began walking away. Over his shoulder, he said, “I have a feeling you’re right.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The sentencing was held at 1900 hours. All military personnel not on watch, as well as the contingent of civilians, attended.

  It was a simple affair. Someone rigged up a PA system using a CB loudspeaker so Morgan could bring things to order. De
tective Holzman presented his findings, starting with the incident in the trailer park and culminating with Farrell’s death at my hands. For my part, all I had to do was repeat the same story I had told several times earlier. Captain Morgan declared that I had acted in self-defense and would not be charged with any crimes. He then explained to his troops that my actions were justified, and if anyone so much as looked at me crossways, he would put his boot up so far up their ass they would taste shoe polish. That seemed to get the message across.

  Finally, a couple of armed sergeants brought Private Stanhouse forward. Morgan told the assembled crowd that the young man had confessed to aiding and abetting a deserter, and if not for his actions, none of the tragic events that happened afterward would have occurred. Finished, he asked the kid what he had to say for himself.

  Most of it was unintelligible. He was weeping and shivering with fear, but I got the impression he was trying to apologize. If the previous night’s events had happened to someone else, I might have felt sorry for the kid. I might have wanted Morgan to show him mercy and find some form of punishment that would teach him his lesson, but let him continue on in life.

  But it didn’t happen to someone else. It happened to Lauren and me.

  Lastly, Morgan asked my father and me to come forth and say what we wanted to the soldier. I declined; I had nothing to say to him. My father, however, did.

  “I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry,” he told the weeping soldier. “That bastard Farrell raped my wife and tried to kill my son. You abandoned your duties and deliberately let that happen. And for what? A box of whiskey?” He spit in the soldier’s face. “Rot in hell.”

  To Morgan, he said, “You want my advice? Shoot the fucker. Hell, I’ll even do it for you.”

  The captain thought it over for most of a full minute. His expression was stoic, but I could see the turmoil behind his eyes. The crowd stayed silent, waiting. Finally, he picked up the microphone.

  “Desertion has become a rampant problem in the Army. Our responsibilities are now too grave to allow an offense like this to be punished lightly. For those of you thinking about striking out on your own, I would remind you of the oath you swore to defend the people of this country. To abandon your duties now, in a time of such profound turmoil, is the height of selfishness and irresponsibility. And I, for one, will not abide it.”

  He turned to the trembling soldier and stared at him flatly. “You knowingly aided and abetted a deserter. Worse, you allowed a criminal to harm one of the very people he was charged with protecting. Now that soldier is dead, and an innocent woman will have to live with the aftermath of a sexual assault for the rest of her life. There is a reason why desertion is a crime, soldier. And you have crossed the line.”

  Raising his voice, he said, “Private Lawrence Stanhouse, I hereby sentence you to death. Your execution will be carried out immediately.”

  A stir of whispers flowed through the crowd, the soldiers looking back and forth at each other in disbelief. Private Stanhouse went ghost white, his mouth hanging open in raw shock. Morgan turned to my father and offered him his sidearm. Dad took it, glaring coldly at the doomed man.

  The two armed sergeants half-dragged, half-carried the private outside the gate kicking and screaming and begging the whole way. Dad followed a few paces behind, his face a mask of hate.

  Morgan ordered the soldiers in the crowd to remain where they were and stand at attention. To one of his aides, he quietly gave orders to arrange a burial detail once he had dismissed everyone. We all stood in silence, military and civilian alike, until a few minutes later, a single report thundered across the field. Morgan stood with his hands clasped behind his back as the echo faded, then turned smartly and picked up the microphone.

  “Let me make myself abundantly clear,” he said. “I. Am. Done. Fucking. Around. Discipline has been getting worse and worse since we left San Antonio, and I will tolerate it no further. Senior NCOs and squad leaders, you had better straighten your people the up, or so help me, I will come down on you like the hammer of God. The rest of you, I strongly suggest you get the fuck in line. There will be no more incidents like this one. There will be no more incidents PERIOD. Do I make myself clear?”

  Stridently, in unison, the troops shouted, “YES SIR!”

  “Very well. Dismissed.”

  Behind me, I heard Lola say, “I can’t believe that just happened.”

  Soft hands wrapped around my arm, and I looked down to see Sophia staring up at me with tears in her eyes. “Caleb, I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  I pulled her close, kissed the top of her head, and said, “There’s nothing to say, Sophia. Now we just have to try to move on.”

  “What about Lauren. Is she going to be all right?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that, so I held her and said nothing.

  *****

  Lauren was doing remarkably well.

  Night had fallen, and the medics finally allowed me to visit her in the medical tent. She was sitting up on her cot eating a bowl of soup when I walked in.

  “Hi there, sweetheart.” She put her bowl down on a small table and let me kneel and pull her into a hug.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  “I’ve been better, Caleb. I’ve been better.”

  “Are you in pain?” I whispered. “I have some pain meds stashed in my pack. You can have them if you want.”

  The look of relief in her eyes made me want to weep. “Oh God, that would be so great. They don’t have much to give me here. My … um … you know, they had to stitch things up.”

  This time, there was no stopping the tears. I felt them flow down my cheeks and pulled the woman who had raised me like her own into my arms and rocked her back and forth, bitterness and rage and despair warring for dominance. “I’m so sorry Lauren. I wish I had gotten there sooner.”

  She hugged me back, and I felt warm wetness spread on my shirt where she pressed her face against it. “Don’t, Caleb. You did the best you could. You saved me. Again.”

  We stayed that way, holding each other. Finally, I let go and sat down on the cot beside her. We talked for a while, mostly about how Dad was doing. I asked if she wanted to see him yet, and she said she wasn’t sure she was ready. I used the conversation as a pretext to surreptitiously fish the bottle of pills from my pack and stash them under her pillow. She watched me do it, and mouthed, Thank you.

  I leaned in and whispered, “It’s oxycodone, so don’t take more than one every eight hours, okay?”

  She hugged me again, her face turned away, and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  A few minutes later, Lauren said she was happy to see me, but she was very tired. “And I’m not going to lie,” she added. “I’m really looking forward to taking one of those pills.”

  “I understand.” I kissed her on her cheek and asked, “Anything else you need from me?”

  “Just one thing. If you could send Lola by, I would appreciate it. I need her to get something for me.”

  “What is it? Maybe I can get it for you.”

  She flushed and said, “No, honey. I’d prefer if it was her. Girl stuff, you know.”

  “Oh. Say no more. See you in the morning, Lauren.”

  “Goodnight, sweetie.”

  I hugged her one last time and left.

  *****

  The next morning, I woke up to the smell of food cooking and Sophia’s warm body next to mine.

  While I was visiting Lauren the night before, Mike had hauled the camper outside the gate and left it by the side of the road, so we were all sleeping in tents. Not that I begrudged Mike for getting rid of the camper; blowing Farrell’s brains out had made a hell of a mess. Furthermore, I could only imagine how traumatic it would be for Lauren to see the camper again and be reminded of what happened to her there. I would sleep on a bed of nails if it spared my stepmother that pain.

  Lola and Tyrel were already up and busy cooking canned meat, rice, beans,
and flatbread over an open fire. I left Sophia sleeping and followed my nose toward breakfast.

  “Smells great,” I said, sitting down in my chair.

  “Thanks,” Lola replied, smiling. I watched her for a moment, having a hard time believing the change that had occurred in her. She had gained weight—not much, but enough she did not look gaunt anymore—and the bags under her eyes were gone. She moved with easy grace, her eyes bright and alive. It could not believe I was looking at the same sad, sallow, booze-soaked woman we had found hiding from the world at Canyon Lake.

  Shifting my gaze, I noticed Tyrel watching her as well, smiling, his dark black eyes glistening with what I could only describe as infatuation. Lola seemed to be aware of the scrutiny, but made no effort to discourage it. Quite the opposite, actually. Despite the leaden pain in my chest, I found myself smiling.

  “Hey, Earth to Ty,” I said, tossing a pebble at my old friend.

  “What?” he grumped, throwing the pebble back at me.

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Stiff as hell,” he said, straightening it out and wincing. “But getting better. It was a through-and-through, no deformation of the projectile. I can walk on it without a crutch now, but it’s still slowing me down. I’ll be glad when it heals up.”

  There were probably only a few people in the world who could handle a gunshot wound to the leg with such aplomb, and Ty was one of them. I reminded myself never to get on his bad side.

  “Glad to hear you’re getting better. Now how about some of that grub?”

  “How about you get off your ass and come get it?”

  Good old Ty. Such a giver.

  I found a clean plate, piled it with grub, and covered the whole works with a piece of flatbread. Despite the growling in my stomach, I waited a few minutes for steam from the food to soften the stiff bread. When it became limp to the touch, I piled the ingredients and gorged on what I had affectionately come to refer to as camp tacos.