by Chris Offutt
“Larry wasn’t here long. He was part of a program for doctors with big med school bills. They go somewhere that needs doctors, here or Indian reservations, the Mississippi Delta. They work a couple of years and the loan is forgiven. He finished and took a job in Wisconsin. Wanted me to go with him.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I told him I had to stay and help Mom but that was a lie. The truth is I don’t want to leave.”
“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. This whole thing is my fault—Peggy in here, I mean.”
“Don’t blame yourself.”
He nodded.
“Larry had a lot of funny stories,” she said. “One he told me, a man brought his wife into the ER. She’d been bit by a snake. Larry asked what kind of snake. He said it was the funniest thing—”
Her phone buzzed. She answered it, talking quietly, and left the room. Mick knew she was trying to get his mind off Peggy and was grateful, even if it was impossible. His own nervousness surprised him. Jumpy expectant fathers were normal but the kid wasn’t his. Maybe it was the environment. He disliked being indoors, and hospitals were the worst—few windows, bland colors, busy personnel walking swiftly with quiet steps.
Linda returned, her face distraught, the skin tight, her mouth a sharp line like a surgical slit. He looked at her and waited.
“That was Johnny Boy,” she said. “I need to talk to you. Not in here.”
He followed her along the wide corridor through a maze of intersecting wards with nurse stations at central points, each leading to another hall. They took the elevator down and walked through the new pavilion and finally outside. Two orderlies were smoking cigarettes and looking at their phones. Linda continued into the parking lot until she could speak privately.
“Bobby’s dead,” she said. “Hanged himself in jail.”
Mick nodded.
“I should’ve seen it coming,” she said. “Warned the jailer.”
“Now you’re blaming yourself,” he said.
“Maybe it’s what we do. Why we both wound up in these kind of jobs.”
Mick walked to the middle of the parking lot. He looked east, then west, and finally at the black hillside that shadowed the town. The moon was a crescent of bone.
“There used to be a road here,” he said.
“You sound like Papaw.”
“This hospital takes over everything around it.”
“The college does the same on the other end of town. Pretty soon there won’t be nothing else. Progress is wrecking us.”
“Now you sound like Papaw,” he said.
The raucous noise of an eighteen-wheel truck gearing down echoed from the interstate connector. Behind it came the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle. Tendrils of cloud slid across the sky like smoke. Mars was in its place as if lodged in a socket. Nonnie’s death had produced three more—Tanner, Delmer, and now Bobby. The vulnerable always died early. Death begat death, and he’d been unable to halt its advance.
He went to the edge of the parking lot where a line of sweetgums and wild roses twined around the strands of a wire fence. Beyond it was a small house built of wood. The hospital or college would take it soon. Mick felt like the house, trapped between powerful forces. His career and his personal life were being squeezed together with no room for him. He felt suffocated by his family, the town, his marriage, even the tiny cabin in the woods.
Linda’s pocket buzzed, the light of her phone blinking through the fabric of her pants. She reached for it and Mick walked away, not wanting to hear about the next loss. Frankie, he thought, it would be him. The people who were supposed to protect him saw him as an instrument to use, and now he’d be a liability.
“Mick,” his sister shouted. “It’s a girl!”
They trotted across the asphalt and returned to the maternity ward. A nurse explained that labor had been short and fast. The baby was healthy, small but not classified as premature. Peggy had received epidural anesthesia, then a dose of hydrocodone. The baby was in neonatal care and would be moved to the newborn nursery soon. The nurse warned Mick that for the next few hours Peggy would be groggy and weak.
Mick entered the room and saw her propped at an angle on the bed. He stood at a distance, aware of his dirty clothing, his recent proximity to murder.
“You’re here,” Peggy said.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, uh, uh …”
She gestured to a couch beneath a window. Instead he pulled a chair next to the bed and took her hand.
“I’m glad you …” she said. “I didn’t think …”
Her voice trailed away and her eyes closed.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here.”
Her breathing shifted into the steadiness of slumber, her hand still clenching his. Various medical machines emitted a lulling hum that relaxed him. He wanted to remain in this untroubled state forever. He could retire from the army and open a boat shop on Cave Run Lake. Peggy had mentioned it years ago. He’d dismissed the idea out of hand but when the desert heat reached 115 degrees he often imagined sitting on a chair facing the water. In a few years he could teach the girl to fish.
He dozed, awakening when nurses came and went. A doctor entered, examined the machines, and left. Then another nurse. Then his sister.
“Mick,” she said. “Mick, wake up. We’ve got a problem.”
Instantly alert, Mick followed Linda into the hall. A woman in scrubs pushed a food cart along the immaculate corridor. From an open door came the excited hubbub of a family seeing the newest addition to their ranks. Standing at the far end near the nurse’s station were Johnny Boy and Special Agent Wilson.
“It’s the FBI guy,” she said. “He’s here to arrest you.”
Mick nodded, wondering if Delmer’s body had already been discovered. Tucker wouldn’t have talked. It must have been the Johnsons. They’d given him up.
“What charge?” he said.
“AWOL. The army issued a warrant. I got notification, too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to,” she said. “Then Peggy came here and I decided to wait.”
“Where’s the nursery?”
She raised her hand in a halt gesture to Johnny Boy then led Mick the opposite way. They rounded a corner and entered a room with a large glass window. On the other side were rows of transparent cribs with high sides like aquariums. Four were empty. The rest held babies—most sleeping, some wired to monitors, two crying. Taped to the side of one was a placard that read HARDIN, GIRL.
Mick stared into the room for a full three minutes, memorizing the contours of the box and position of the infant. Her face was tiny and red. Hair the color of her mother’s wisped from beneath a white cap.
“She’s beautiful,” Linda said.
“I need to tell you a few things.”
“Best hurry. I don’t know how long Wilson will wait.”
“Delmer Collins is dead,” he said.
“Who killed him?”
“There won’t be any more killing. That’s what matters.”
“Where’s the body?”
“The old Caudill place,” he said.
“What else is up there?”
“Delmer’s car. No evidence. No shell casings. No footprints.”
“You did it, didn’t you?”
“I cleaned it up. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Fuckin’ Barney?”
“No, not him. With the rest stop shut down, he’ll need a new place to meet. If you find it and put a stop to the whole thing, those bigshots will leave you alone.”
“You got it all worked out, don’t you?”
“Not really,” Mick said. “I wish I could’ve brought down Murvil Knox.”
“Who killed Delmer?”
“I can’t tell you now,” he said.
“When?”
“After the guy who killed him dies. Right now I need a favor.”
“What?”
“Tell Peggy I
forgive her.”
“Anything else?”
He looked through the glass at the pink sign: Hardin, Girl.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tell her I’m not coming back.”
They left the room and walked the bland hallway. Johnny Boy appeared miserable while Wilson’s eyes gleamed with purpose.
“I have to take you in,” Wilson said.
“Let’s see the papers,” Mick said.
“They’re in the car.”
“I’ve got mine,” Linda said. She pulled a sheaf of documents from her jacket pocket. “They faxed them over. It’s all official, Mick.”
She gave Wilson a tight smile lacking any trace of humor.
“He’s my prisoner,” she said.
“The FBI has jurisdiction,” Wilson said.
“No, you don’t,” Linda said. “You’re here to assist. That’s what you told me. Your boss Murvil Knox made it clear to me.”
“He’s not my boss.”
“He brought you here. You report to him. You’re his pet Fed.”
“My orders come from the Louisville office,” Wilson said. “Right now I’m placing your brother under arrest for Absent Without Leave. It’s a federal offense. I’m a federal agent.”
“I’m the high sheriff of Eldridge County.” She slapped the warrant against her open palm. Her voice hardened. “And you are interfering with my duties.”
“You’ll regret this,” Wilson said.
“Just add it to the pile,” she said. “The biggest regret I got is being forced to work with you.”
She took a step forward, moving within arm’s length of Wilson. Mick had seen this sort of standoff dozens of times, motivated by pride, ego, and arrogance. Self-righteous people were the most dangerous. Worse, they were unpredicatable. Linda took another step and Wilson backed off.
“Sis,” Mick said. “Maybe you should let him do it.”
“Hush a minute,” she said. “Let me think.”
The hospital intercom requested a doctor to the ER. A nurse pushed a cart with a computer attached, the wheels rolling silently. The four of them stood in a tense circle with several people watching.
“Johnny Boy,” she said, “your phone got a camera on it?”
“Sure does.”
She nodded, still thinking, then looked at Wilson.
“I’ll cuff Mick and lead him out,” she said. “Johnny Boy will take a bunch of pictures of us, Mick and me only. When we get outside, I’ll turn Mick over to Wilson. He’ll get the formal credit and out of my damn hair.”
“Why the photos?” Wilson said.
“Johnny Boy will show them around. Get one in the paper. Everybody will know it was me that took him in.”
“Smart,” Mick said. “Makes good sense politically. You’ll be the sheriff who arrested her own brother.”
“Might get the mayor off my ass.”
“They’ll all be afraid of you,” Mick said. “That’s good.”
He looked at Wilson, waiting. He knew Wilson would pretend to think it over long enough to preserve a thin shred of dignity. Twenty seconds passed before Wilson shrugged. Linda latched the handcuffs around her brother’s wrists. The four of them walked down the hall, Wilson in the lead with Johnny Boy moving backward and firing off multiple bursts of photographs. Mick deliberately kept his face turned to the lens.
After a silent elevator ride, they took the long way through the hospital, past people Mick recalled from high school—patients, nurses, orderlies, and intake clerks. The older woman selling flowers from a small alcove had known his mother. Everyone saw him in custody of his sister. Word would spread through the county. It probably already had by social media.
They walked across the parking lot to Wilson’s car. Linda removed the handcuffs.
“What now?” she said to Wilson.
“Stockade at Fort Campbell,” Wilson said.
He reached for the handcuff case clipped to his belt.
“It’s a long drive,” Mick said. “No cuffs. I give you my word I won’t escape. Or we can let the sheriff get the arrest. Your choice.”
Wilson nodded reluctantly.
“Sis,” Mick said. “You’ll look back on this as the best day of your life. You finally got me under control.”
“Maybe,” she said, and forced a grin. “Probably.”
As a group they went to his grandfather’s truck where he retrieved his knapsack. He gave the truck keys to Linda.
“Tell Peggy what I said.”
“All right,” she said. “Hey, Wilson. Stay the fuck out of my county.”
Mick grinned and nodded to Johnny Boy. He walked around the car and waited for Wilson to unlock it. The trip took nearly six hours with a stop for food and gas. Neither man spoke.
During the drive Mick realized his marriage had ended years ago except for shared household projects. He’d thought that was enough. Perhaps he was naïve. People married when they were young and optimistic, then grew entangled like rosebushes or grew apart like weeds. He believed that he could have withstood her dalliance with another man, something physical that lacked emotional involvement, but a baby was another matter. They’d lived apart for more than half their marriage which meant they both preferred it that way. He considered it a personal flaw to flee when things got hard.
He wanted to be the kind of person who’d accept the child of another man. It was noble and honorable. But he knew that every time he looked at the kid he’d think of his wife’s betrayal. Mick didn’t want his resentment and sorrow to work its way into the life of a child. Given his history, he’d be a terrible father to his own kid let alone that of a stranger. His marriage was over and he was leaving the country in legal jeopardy. Worse, he’d been unable to stop further murder. He’d failed on all fronts.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fort Campbell straddles the state line of Kentucky and Tennessee, home to the 101st Airborne Divison and the 5th Special Forces Group. Mick had gone to jump school there and later completed the FRIES/SPIES course to learn insertion and extraction from hot zones. Wilson called ahead for clearance but they were arriving at 2300 hours which meant driving an extra twenty minutes to Sabre Gate. As soon as they entered base, Mick’s body instinctively relaxed. He was home.
Wilson followed Mick’s directions to the building that housed the 502nd MP Battalion. They left the vehicle and stretched. A corporal completed the paperwork for prisoner transfer and gave a copy to Wilson.
“Corporal,” Mick said. “Turn your back.”
“Sir?”
“I outrank you. Turn your back.”
Frowning, the corporal shifted his body to face away. Mick delivered a swift right hook to Wilson’s stomach. Air blew out of his lungs and he doubled over, trying to breathe. Mick leaned close to him.
“That’s for Tanner Curtis,” he said.
The grinning corporal escorted Mick to the office of Lieutenant Colonel McVey, commander of the stockade. The room was plain and simple in a way Mick preferred. There was an American flag, a photograph of the president, and a large insignia of the CID crest with its motto:
Do What Has To Be Done
Mick felt more comfortable than he had in the past three weeks. Despite not being in uniform, he saluted and stood at attention.
“At ease,” the colonel said.
Mick moved his left foot parallel with his shoulder, tucked his arms behind his back, and interlocked his thumbs. The colonel looked through a file, occasionally giving Mick a shrewd glance.
“Chief Warrant Officer Michael Hardin,” McVey said. “Know why you’re here?”
“AWOL, sir. Pregnant wife. She gave birth this afternoon.”
“Congratulations. But that’s not the reason.”
Mick nodded once, waiting.
“Your CO wants you back pronto. A triple-homicide at Camp Darby in Italy. I’m to put you on the first available aircraft. Got a flight in two hours. You’re lucky. If you got here any later you’d have to wait a week under guard.
You have time for chow and a shower. You could use some clean clothes.”
He studied Mick carefully.
“What’s wrong with your arm?”
“Mule bite, sir.”
“See the medic.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s an order, Chief. In Afghanistan we used them to transport M240s, ammo belts, and Javelins. Mean animal. Carry disease.”
McVey leaned back in his chair.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Mick sat in the wooden chair opposite McVey’s desk.
“I was stationed at the Rock,” McVey said, using the affectionate term for Garrison Baumholder in Germany. “Pretty country. Fun town. Good beer. I know your commander. Colonel Whitaker is the best man I ever served under.”
“Yes, sir,” Mick said. “Same for me, sir.”
“Your record is impressive.” He opened the file. “Soldier’s Medal. Silver Star. Purple Heart. Highest clearance rate in the CID. If you get tired of Europe, I can use a man with your abilities.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Mick stood, saluted, and moved to the door, stopped by the colonel’s voice.
“One more thing, Chief. Say hello to my men on duty.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a legend in CID. Some of them applied due to your example.”
“Yes, sir,” Mick said and left the office.
Two hours later he boarded the plane with new clothes and a fresh dressing on his arm. After takeoff he slept for three hours. The rest of the way he pondered the anecdote that Linda hadn’t finished telling him, the woman with a snake bite in the emergency room. Like a puzzle, he considered it from different angles. It was probably funny, or took a funny turn, but he couldn’t figure it out. There was nothing funny about a snake bite.
The End
Acknowledgments
For generous time and assistance with military details, I am grateful to Sergeant First Class Levi S. Houston. For assistance with details of law enforcement, I am grateful to Major Jim Hyde, Ret., Bowling Green Police Department. Any and all errors are mine and mine alone.
For generous support and editorial feedback, I thank the following people: Amy Hundley, Nicole Aragi, Kathi Whitley, Randy Ryan, Bill Boyle, Michael Farris Smith, Ivo Kamps, Diana Schutz, Ari Friedlander, and Levi Henriksen.