by KG MacGregor
“You’re serious?”
“What, I shouldn’t be? Just a minute ago you were the one saying I should go.”
“It would be good for you. Sometimes I think you go out of your way to steer clear of people so you don’t have to talk to them. Your mom noticed it too. She says you outgrew all the people here that you went to school with.”
There probably was truth to that. She’d come home from college a couple of times to find half of her friends already married and settling into family life and the other half wrapped up in the college sorority scene. Joining the Marines had only exacerbated their differences.
“I guess it wouldn’t kill me to give it a try.”
Marleigh pulled off her jeans and continued staring into her closet as if waiting for the perfect outfit to shake itself from its hanger. “You make it sound like torture. Does it even occur to you that it might be fun?”
“Does it occur to you that you’re flaunting yourself in your underwear?” Zann lunged at her from behind and heaved her to the bed. “I’ll show you what fun is.”
Chapter Ten
If she had it to do over again, Marleigh would have chosen a more casual place for their evening out with Rocky and Bridget, like pizza or wings at a raucous sports bar. The quiet atmosphere of Anthony’s, the restaurant of the Crocker Farm Inn where she and Zann had been married a couple of years ago, put the burden of conversation squarely on her shoulders.
Dinner as a foursome had been her idea, a chance for Bridget to enjoy a pleasant night out, something most people took for granted. She needed to see what a healthy relationship looked like. Rocky had grown increasingly possessive and domineering, she said, especially after cutbacks at the paper had saddled the whole staff with longer hours. That’s all Marleigh could get from her, but the subtle signs of physical abuse had resurfaced—long sleeves on a hot day and more makeup than usual.
Eyeing him now across the cloth-draped table, she thought him a textbook example of a man who bullied women because he lacked self-esteem. He was the classic wannabe, a short, skinny guy who never quite grew into manhood. What he couldn’t do against the guys in the gym, he made up for by dominating his wife.
They were seated at a square table on the covered deck alongside several other parties, all of them well-dressed and in polite conversation. New age piano music hummed from hidden speakers.
“Rocky, tell them what you found in the yard the other day. You guys aren’t going to believe this.”
“A timber rattler over two feet long. He was curled up in the rocks by the mailbox. I’m lucky I didn’t step on him when I went to get the mail.” He withdrew his phone to show them the photo.
Marleigh had done a feature several years ago about snakes in Vermont. The one in Rocky’s photo was very obviously a milk snake, an utterly harmless creature with markings that were somewhat similar to those of a timber rattler. The distinction was its solid black tail.
“What did you do with it?”
“Blew its head off with a Glock 18,” he said smugly. “One shot. Motherfucker never knew what hit him.”
A deep chill shook her as he confirmed one of her worst fears, that her best friend’s controlling and abusive husband owned a handgun. She could easily picture him waving it in Bridget’s face, telling her what he’d do if he ever caught her talking to another guy or lying to him about where she’d been. Why hadn’t Bridget ever mentioned it? Probably because she was too ashamed for anyone to know how he treated her.
The waiter appeared at their table to announce the night’s specials. “Would anyone care for something from the bar?”
Rocky ordered a double Jack and Coke, evidently unaware of the gentlemanly custom of “ladies first.”
As Zann studied the menu in silence, she shifted her chair and crossed a leg, a posture that made her look almost disengaged, as if she might stand at any moment and leave. She’d been on edge ever since they left the house, right after Marleigh had shared her suspicions that Rocky had returned to his old ways. “Are you having anything, babe?”
They’d made a pact about drinking alcohol whenever they drove somewhere together. A single beer or glass of wine was fine, but only one of them could exceed that limit. That left the other sober enough to drive home. Considering the prices at Anthony’s—twelve bucks for a glass of their house zinfandel—Marleigh was willing to skip a cocktail altogether. “I think I’ll just stick with sparkling water tonight.”
“Okay then, make mine a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks.”
It was rare for Zann to drink hard liquor, and Marleigh wondered if it was her way of showing Rocky she was just as tough as he was. The last thing she or Bridget needed tonight was for their spouses to get into a drunken pissing match, especially one that could turn Rocky violent by the time they got home.
Bridget clutched his hand on the table in what looked like an exaggerated display of affection. “So here’s a question: Am I a bad person for hoping the Memorial Day picnic gets rained out next week?”
“That would make me a bad person too,” Marleigh said. “If it rains, we get a holiday like everybody else. Otherwise we’re stuck working all day in the hot sun.”
It was a canned response, staged to ease Rocky’s skepticism about whether Bridget was telling the truth about having to work on the holiday. Clay Teele would scratch her from the schedule if he had any idea the extra assignments were causing this kind of strife in her home life. There was no roundabout way she could ask him for special considerations without confessing she had a husband who went ballistic every time she worked late. She’d practically begged Marleigh not to tell anyone on the Messenger staff. Rocky would calm down again eventually, she said, once he realized he could trust her. If it got too bad, she promised to leave him.
For Bridget’s sake, Marleigh hoped it wouldn’t take another dangerous episode of violence to make her see the light. Rocky had always been volatile. And while he’d been tolerant of their friendship, that would change in a hurry if he found out she’d been putting the bug in Bridget’s ear to start planning her exit strategy.
“Hey Zann,” he said, “what kind of firepower did you guys have in the Marine Corps?”
“I carried an M16 and an M9 Beretta.”
“M16, huh…I’d take the Bushmaster over that any day. It’s easier to modify. You can get a conversion kit for a hundred bucks that’ll make the AR-15 fully auto.”
Zann scoffed as she took a sip of her drink. “So you can waste a bunch of bullets trying to get close to the target? The only reason anybody needs an auto is if they don’t know how to aim.”
His ears turned red and Marleigh braced for an angry eruption. Guys like Rocky weren’t used to being on the butt end of a putdown.
With a sneer, he replied, “Just saying it’s more fun, that’s all.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I didn’t use my rifle for fun.”
“Bridget said you smoked a bunch of Tally-ban over there. And fuck, you got shot and lived to tell about it. That’s badass.”
Zann raised her glass toward the waiter to indicate she was ready for another. It might have interested her to talk about her time in the Marine Corps with someone she respected, real soldiers like the group that Air Force colonel was putting together. She’d shown nothing but disdain for guys who thought toting guns into Hannaford’s supermarket made them heroes.
“I want to hear more about that rattlesnake,” Marleigh interjected to break the tension. Surely Rocky would rather talk about himself than Zann’s military exploits. “Aren’t you worried you’ll find more?”
He ignored her, his eyes riveted on Zann. “Come on, you blew a bunch of rag heads to smithereens. You can’t tell me that wasn’t fun.”
“There’s nothing fun about killing people. The only people who think there is have some kind of mental defect. I shot them because they were the enemy and that’s what I was trained to do. It’s called kill or be killed. War isn’t some video game where Rambo wan
nabes can hit the reset button after they get their heads blown off because they weren’t quick enough on the joystick.”
A cold silence hung over the table while the waiter delivered Zann and Rocky’s second round. Marleigh knew from Bridget that he never let anyone else get the last word.
“You still shoot?”
Zann shook her head.
“You ought to come out to Horse Trail Road sometime. We got us a range out there at Jeb Hickman’s farm. First dirt road on the left past Otter Creek. There’s a bunch of targets set up out there in the field…everything you’d want all the way up to about five hundred yards.”
“Is it backstopped?”
Marleigh was stunned to hear Zann express curiosity. She didn’t even own a gun.
“Yeah, Jeb used to let construction companies come in there to get fill dirt off the hillside, so now there’s this big dirt wall at the far end. It’s real safe. Nothing’s leaking out of there.” Rocky’s croaky voice rose with excitement as he sensed her interest. “I always go early in the morning ’cause there’s hardly anybody else out there. Jeb leaves the gate unlocked and he’s put this box out there with a padlock on it so shooters can put money in it. Everything’s on the honor system…supposed to be twenty bucks a trip, but nobody knows if you don’t put it in every time.”
“Pistol range too?”
“Fuck yeah, with a big ol’ bullet box.”
It was frightening that Bridget had never mentioned his guns before. Given the way she tried to hide her cuts and bruises, it made sense she wouldn’t want anyone to know her home life was actually worse than it appeared.
What didn’t make sense was Zann asking all these questions. She’d never expressed any interest in guns, not once in all the time Marleigh had known her.
“That sucks about your hand,” Rocky said, crassly pointing to her injured arm. “There’s a couple of rifle stands though. You might could do it that way…some of the targets are pretty close.”
A flicker of anger flashed in Zann’s eyes as she tipped her head back. Looking down her nose at Rocky, she practically growled, “I guarantee you I could do it if I decided that’s how I wanted to waste my time.”
* * *
“I wasn’t serious,” Zann grumbled as she tugged the scratchy seat belt from her bare neck. No wonder Marleigh complained so much when she rode in the passenger seat of the Cherokee. “I just thought it was better to let him talk about shooting targets than people. Rocky would shit his pants if he ever had to look down the barrel of an enemy rifle. It’s all a macho game to guys like that. The best they’ll ever do is popping paper targets that stand still and don’t shoot back.”
She’d had only two drinks at dinner, but rules were rules. A license check could put her in jail if they caught her driving over the limit.
Considering the kind of day she’d had, she should have been in a better mood. An award at work, making love in the afternoon. But coming on top of her doubts about why she hadn’t gotten the Senior Inspector job, Rocky had pushed her button with his crack about her not being able to shoot because of her hand. “Can you possibly tell me why Bridget hasn’t left that dickwad already? I don’t care if he’s hung like a horse. He’s one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever met.”
Marleigh sighed. “Who knows? She swears she loves him, that he can be the sweetest guy in the world. I get a scary vibe about it sometimes. I was at their apartment one day right after Christmas and he came in all mad about something. I heard him yelling at her that she couldn’t do better than him, that nobody else would put up with somebody so lazy and stupid. Then when he realized I was in the kitchen, he tried to make like he was joking. It was creepy as hell. I think she’s a lot more afraid of him than she lets on.”
“That’s what I mean, so why doesn’t she just leave?”
“Obviously he holds some kind of power over her. Or she’s afraid he’ll track her down, and now that I know he worships his guns, I can understand why. Sometimes I just want to scream at her to stand up to him. But if she does and he beats the crap out of her, it would be my fault.”
“Hunh…promise me you’ll be careful about getting in the middle of that.” Marleigh was exactly the kind of friend who would try to come to the rescue without regard for her own safety. “Tell her she can call me if she’s in trouble. I wouldn’t need any hands at all to kick his scrawny ass.”
“That’s what I love about you, Captain Zann. You’re ready to be everybody’s hero.” They met over the console for a quick peck on the lips. “But I don’t want you in the middle of their fights either, especially with his guns.”
She doubted a guy like Rocky could keep his head if he ever really felt threatened. A highly trained combat veteran would take his gun away and shoot him with it. That’s what she’d do.
“I need to practice doing more stuff with my left hand. I’ve gotten kind of lazy about my exercises. You know what they say—use it or lose it.”
Marleigh surprised her with a snicker. “I have to admit, there was a second there where I wanted to see you rare back with it and punch Rocky in the face.”
For the most part she’d made peace with her limitations. Likely the injury wasn’t obvious to casual observers, since she’d trained other muscles to bend her elbow and wrist, and to swing her arm when she walked. They wouldn’t notice how she compensated for her weakened grip, or that she usually avoided in public any activities that required both hands.
They pulled into the driveway where the headlights illuminated their cozy house, its white shutters gleaming against the pale blue siding. Again Zann felt a surge of pride at all the work they’d done to make it home. “We’re so lucky, Marleigh. We have such a nice life.”
As they came to a stop, Marleigh grabbed her hand and threaded their fingers. “I’m never letting you go. You got that?”
“Got it, babe. Trapped forever. And loving every minute of it.” Their doting declarations shattered the melancholy she’d been fighting all evening, its effects made worse by alcohol.
As they walked up the stairs to the front porch, she pushed her hand into Marleigh’s hip pocket and squeezed her butt through the denim. There were plenty of things worse than being a prisoner of the woman she loved.
Chapter Eleven
Zann cringed to see a couple of dozen chairs arranged in a wide circle. Exactly as she feared, like a group therapy session. She’d hoped to hide in the back row where she could get up and sneak out if she didn’t like it.
“Captain Redeker, glad you could make it.” Air Force Colonel Leon Grant, an African-American whose temples were tinged with silver, wore creased gray slacks and a white shirt.
For a second she was embarrassed not to have taken more care with her own appearance. Officers were trained to conduct themselves with excellence at all times. In her jeans and T-shirt, she looked like the others, who she guessed were enlisted. Some of the names and faces were vaguely familiar, people who’d been a couple of years ahead or behind her in high school.
“Sounds weird to be called a captain again. I’ve gotten used to just being Zann.” She shook his hand and allowed herself to be led to a table with coffee and donuts.
“Force of habit,” he said. “Thirty years in the Air Force will do that. But we don’t stand on ceremony here, so feel free to be yourself. What we all have in common is the belief that serving our country is fundamental to who we are…the good and sometimes the not-so-good. So now we’re here to help each other get through this thing called life.”
Yep, that sounded like group therapy. As a courtesy to Colonel Grant, she was willing to give it one meeting but couldn’t imagine she’d come back for support she didn’t need.
The group had met twice already, and it was apparent from the various clusters that friendships had already formed. She was pleased not to be the only woman present. Two were seated already and chatting with a handful of men.
“Welcome,” the colonel announced. “We have some new faces joining u
s tonight, so why don’t we start with introductions?”
The oldest of the group was in his eighties, a Korean War veteran who admitted he’d joined because those “sons of bitches over at Legion Hall” cheated at poker and he wanted nothing to do with them. Two others had served in Vietnam, and another three in Desert Storm in the early 1990s. Everyone else was around Zann’s age, including the two women. They and several of the men were from a local National Guard unit that had been called up to provide support services for Operation Iraqi Freedom.
The man sitting next to her was a first-timer too, rugged-looking with his barrel chest and full beard. He introduced himself as Staff Sergeant Wesley Jackson of the 82nd Airborne. Wes, he called himself. A Georgia native, he’d joined the army right out of high school two years prior to 9/11, and had spent four tours training Iraqi troops and Afghani police before joining an outfit called Black Slate. It was obvious from the wave of approval that the other veterans respected his service, and he acknowledged it with a small wave. “Back atcha.”
All eyes turned to Zann, the last to introduce herself.
“Zann Redeker, Marine Corps, assigned to the Three-Two.” Anyone who knew military jargon would recognize that as the Third Battalion, Second Division, an infantry unit based out of Camp Lejeune. “I did three tours in the Helmand Province.”
Jackson cast a look of disbelief and drawled, “I don’t think so, missy. That’s a combat unit.”
She bristled with anger, more for him calling her “missy” than questioning her service. His already crooked nose suggested he made a habit of shooting off his mouth.
“Uh, soldier…” Colonel Grant interrupted calmly, just in time to keep her forearm from connecting with Jackson’s chin. “You might want to check yourself. We agreed we weren’t going to get into rank and seniority here, but I can assure you Captain Redeker has the goods. She also has a Bronze-V to back it up.”