The Garbage Man

by Candace Irving

  But Fremont was still visibly loath to rat out a fellow vet, especially a murdered one. He'd need prodding.

  "Was it a prescription pad?"

  The furrowed brows returned. "Son-of-a-bitch. He was stealing drugs, too?"

  "I don't know. I found a pad of scripts at his place. Obviously, it wasn't his." But if that pad wasn't what Fremont had caught Kusić lifting, what had the lab tech been into? And would it explain that stash of money?

  "Steve, I need to know—what did Kusić steal?"

  "Blood."

  "Excuse me? Did you just say...blood?"

  The sergeant nodded.

  "Why?"

  "Hell, if I know."

  For some reason her brain was still having trouble processing the concept. "How?"

  That earned her another grim twist of his lips. "The man worked in a lab; how do you think he was taking it?"

  "With a needle?"

  Fremont nodded. "And a phlebotomist's vial—or vials. In my case, five of them were drawn that last time. One had been ordered by my doc."

  O-kay.

  Kate sat there as the accusation sank in. There really wasn't much else she could do, let alone say.

  "Look, I know how crazy this sounds. But I'm not the only one he stole blood from."

  That perked her interest. "How many others?" And would they verify this bizarre allegation?

  "At least three that I know of."

  "I'd like to speak to them."

  The sergeant shook his head. "I doubt they'll be down with that. All three are homeless. Given the way the VA's been treating them and every other vet, they're not exactly trusting of The Man at the moment, if you get my drift."

  She got it, but could she even believe it? This?

  Good Lord...blood?

  Why could Kusić even want it? So he could leave it at the scene of some future crime to throw off suspicion? It wouldn't work. The anticoagulants in the vials would be detected, something a lab rat like Kusić would know. Had he hoped to moonlight as a black-market supplier to wannabe vampire nut jobs? Except he couldn't have swung that either. Fremont was talking about vials of blood. Not pints.

  Kate almost smiled at the absurdity of it...until another niggle took up residence at the periphery of her brain.

  It burrowed deeper.

  Pulsed.

  Kusić's body had been completely drained of blood before his parts had been packaged. As had Dunne's.

  Sergeant Fremont leaned closer, staring into her eyes as if he could see her thoughts churning. Considering.

  Was this a connection?

  "I could talk to them for you. Maybe even see if I can track down any others. Ones who will talk to you."

  It was tempting.

  But on the remote chance the accusation was true and somehow connected to those deaths, there was no way she was letting another vet anywhere near this killer.

  Much less one who could no longer maneuver the way he used to be able to maneuver.

  "I can't ask you to do that. In fact, I forbid it. Even if this is connected—"

  Fremont stiffened. Stared at her. Hard. "I'm not an invalid, Kate. I'm just missing a couple limbs. You, of all people, ought to be able to see beneath the scars."

  Before she could apologize, yet another niggle burrowed in. This one caused her to stiffen.

  Missing limbs. Vets.

  Someone who loved a vet? Someone so grief-stricken over his father, brother or son's missing parts that he'd enacted a horrific plan of revenge to reconcile his own grief?

  The theory fit...and it didn't.

  "What is it?"

  She blinked. "Sorry?"

  "You've made a connection. About your case." He reached out to gently tap a finger beneath the corner of her right eye. "I can see it, right in here."

  She smiled. "Your tax dollars at work."

  "You going to share the results?"

  No. But since he knew this place and the people who staffed it better than her, she did offer up another name. "Jason Dunne. Did you know him?"

  "Dunne. That's the second guy you found, right?"

  "Yes. He worked in admin here at Fort Leaves. Walter Reed before that. He also served in Afghanistan—according to some photos I found, at the hospital on Bagram, possibly elsewhere."

  Fremont shook his head. "The name doesn't strike a bell. I'm not surprised. I did split my tours between Afghanistan and Iraq, but most of my fun was gleaned well outside the wire. You got a picture of the guy?"

  Kate retrieved her phone and pulled up the DMV photo Seth had sent her during their text exchanges earlier that morning. She pushed the phone across the table and waited while the sergeant studied it.

  He pushed the phone back. "Yeah. I've seen him. I'm usually here in the mornings, sometimes afternoons. Though the bus stops running about eight, I like to clear out by five to reach the shelter in time for dinner. But a couple Thursdays ago, I was working late with someone on the ward." Fremont tipped his head toward the phone. "Those blond curls and bucketload of freckles? I saw him then."

  "I don't understand." She'd assumed Fremont was just a patient. "You work here too?"

  So why was he eating and sleeping at a homeless shelter?

  The sergeant shook his head. "I just volunteer. But it gives me something to do. Fills the days. So, it's good for me; good for them. Don't get me wrong. They've got some decent folks working in the clinic gym and on the 3C ward, but sometimes a civilian just can't relate enough to really motivate the troops, you know?"

  "And that's where you come in?"

  His grin flashed. "What can I say? It's my charming, effervescent personality. Inspires 'em almost every time. And when it doesn't, I shove my proverbial boot up their ass."

  Kate smiled as memories of her drill sergeants drifted in. She could easily picture this man's face among them. Her amusement deepened.

  "You should join us."

  Her amusement fled. Instantly.

  "Me?"

  "Why not? We can use help. The more the merrier, so to speak."

  Come back here? To a VA hospital? On a regular basis?

  Silence locked in.

  Tension thickened it—in her.

  "You don't have to decide now, Kate. Just...keep it in mind."

  "I will."

  But she wouldn't, and they both knew it.

  Worse, he'd already forgiven her.

  She retrieved her phone and stared at the blank screen. Anything to escape the stark, knowing compassion still simmering across the table. "About Mr. Dunne. Did you notice anything unusual when you saw him that night?"

  Fremont knew damned well she'd changed the subject deliberately. But he let it slide. Shrugged. "Not really. He and a bunch of others were coming out of that shrink's office upstairs. The one we collided in front of. They, ah, run a PTSD group therapy session out of there in the evenings."

  Grant.

  She had no business thinking about him now, much less obsessing. But she couldn't help it. Was that how Grant knew Dunne? And why he'd not only spent so much time with the man, but decided to not mention it?

  Kate tapped the phone to rouse it from sleep and swiped through dozens of photos until she found the one she'd taken the day Ruger had grudgingly let Grant toss him a ball.

  She zoomed in on Grant's face and nudged the phone across the table. "Was he in that corridor too?"

  The sergeant looked down at the photo, then up. He didn't answer.

  "Steve?"

  This smile failed to reach full potential. Probably because her not-so-subtle "we're friends" reminder had been as deliberate as her attempt at CID agent/interviewee had been.

  "Please. It's...important."

  He sighed. "Look, that's not a question I have the right to answer. Helping a murder investigation is one thing. But this? I might not partake in share-fests myself, but that doesn't mean I don't understand vets who do—and usually don't want to be pegged as attending. I gotta respect that."

  "Please."


  "Christ, lady." Another sigh filled the corner of the cafeteria. This one was darker. Resigned. "Shit. Yeah, that guy was hanging out around the door too."

  Nervous energy flooded Kate. She had to stand. Move.

  Now.

  Before she sprinted from the cafeteria, possibly the hospital. "I'll, ah, get the coffee."

  Given how long they'd been sitting here without it, it was a poor excuse. But the sergeant honored it with a nod.

  "I'll be waiting."

  Kate talked herself down as she headed for the stainless-steel urns. First her friend Liz, now Sergeant Fremont. It was true. Grant was doing the one thing they'd both sworn they'd never do. He was spilling his guts to a shrink. And others. That's why he'd started pushing her to do the same.

  But damn it—so what? Fremont was right. Just because she'd gleaned squat from her mandatory share-fests, didn't mean Grant couldn't benefit. He had his own demons to fight. Ones that had been tormenting him since his tours as a surgeon on the front lines, wading through the dangling flesh and oozing fluids of the dead and dying. How could she even think about begrudging him peace?

  She shouldn't.

  She wouldn't.

  Kate filled two Styrofoam cups with coffee and headed for the register. She paid before she realized she'd failed to ask if the sergeant took cream or sugar, or if he even preferred his coffee caffeinated. Too late now.

  She turned toward their table—and stopped. Fremont wasn't alone. A petite brunette and towheaded toddler stood beside him. The woman was clutching Fremont's hand and smiling as she spoke, despite the tears staining her cheeks.

  Fremont murmured something and she released his hand. Wiping her tears, she nodded firmly.

  Kate's heart squeezed as the sergeant ruffled the boy's hair. Familiarity didn't always breed contempt. Sometimes it bred envy.

  The ugly pinch of green clamped harder as Kate watched the sergeant grasp the boy's tiny outstretched hand and solemnly shake it.

  A husband. Kids. From that first, damning glance in the mirror four years earlier, she'd been forced to realize that she'd never have them. She'd even accepted it.

  Or so she'd thought.

  The pinch turned painful as Fremont leaned forward to lift the tyke into his lap. The boy grabbed the wheelchair's arms with chubby fists, chortling loudly as Fremont tipped the chair backward before gently tick-tocking them from side to side.

  "Ma'am?"

  Kate glanced behind her. She was holding up the food line. "Excuse me."

  Embarrassment followed her to the table. Kate nodded to the woman and child who'd joined the sergeant as she set one of the cups of coffee on Fremont's side of the table.

  "Kate, this is Zoe Brandt. She's married to the soldier I mentioned. The one I was working with that night on the ward. Zoe, meet Kate Holland. She's former Army too. She's now a hard-charging deputy with the Braxton PD."

  Zoe smiled. "It's so nice to meet you. I know you know this, but your man? He's amazing. It's taken three months, but my Bobby doesn't think about hurting himself anymore. He's all about the future now, getting fitted for his prosthetics and getting out of here so we can begin rebuilding our lives." Zoe reached down to scoop the boy from Fremont's lap. "He's even talking about having a brother or sister for this guy."

  "That's wonderful." Kate didn't bother correcting the woman's assumption that she and Fremont were anything but the acquaintances they were. Possibly because it felt as though they'd known each other for longer than a day.

  And, yes, it was nice to meet another woman who simply took the ruined side of her face in stride. Why embarrass her?

  "Well, we have to go. Bobby's waiting. I just had to stop and thank you again. Say bye-bye, Eric. Let's go see Daddy."

  Kate joined the sergeant in returning the boy's chubby wave as he and his mother departed the cafeteria. Fremont rolled up to the edge of the table to retrieve the cup of coffee she'd brought over as Kate reclaimed her chair.

  "Thanks."

  "I should've asked how you liked it."

  "Army black and piping hot." He used the Styrofoam cup to salute her. "In other words, this is perfect."

  Kate took advantage of the quiet that settled between them as they nursed their coffees to study the sergeant as he took his second and third sips...and he noticed.

  "What?"

  She flushed. "Zoe. She mentioned her husband's prosthetics."

  "And you want to know why I'm sitting in this chair."

  "Yeah."

  "Luck of the draw. Shrapnel from the IED that took my legs also hit my spine in a decidedly pissy spot. I can't use prosthetics."

  It wasn't fair. He clearly did so much for others. But when was war ever fair?

  Hell, when was life?

  "I'm so sorry."

  He shook his head. "Don't be. I'm damned fortunate, and I know it. I still have a few things to do on this earth, and I was blessed to come home with enough parts intact to be able to accomplish them...just like you."

  Silence cloaked the table, intensifying the moment.

  The implication.

  It hadn't just been that distant stare the day before in the elevator. "You know...who I am."

  His smile slipped in sideways. "Honey, anyone who spent any time over there and returned home with enough faculties left to turn on the nightly news knows who you are. Not too many women came back clutching a Silver Star in one hand and a dozen haji scalps in the other to prove they deserved it." He shrugged. "Though I am sorry I didn't let on earlier that I knew. I didn't want to put you on the spot."

  She appreciated that. But, "It wasn't a dozen. It was eleven. Or so they tell me."

  His brows rose.

  Her wrist began to itch. She ignored it. Along with her shock that she was even broaching this. "I don't...exactly... remember all of it."

  "How much do you recall?"

  "The ambush. My first kill." The clawing desperation as she'd dragged Max's body to a covered position. Or so she'd hoped. "Something bashed into the back of my skull, here." She fingered the spot instinctively. "I went down hard. Cold. I woke up in a mud hovel, stripped of my weapons." Stripped of every blessed thing. Including her clothes and her skin. The latter in several key places. "I'm not sure how much time had passed. My ribs were cracked, my right collarbone shattered." She smoothed her fingers over the worst of her scars. Those that were visible. "My face was flayed open. My cheek, shoulder and torso were still bleeding."

  Among other—lower—places.

  The silence crowded back in for several long, interminable moments. And then he splintered it.

  "How many?"

  She stared at the man. Just stared. Surely he didn't mean—could not be asking—

  But she'd already totaled her kills for him, so he was.

  "Kate?"

  She shook her head against the gentle prod. Closed her mind. Her heart. "I don't—"

  He leaned forward, trapping her with that fathomless stare, as cleanly and completely as she'd been trapped four years ago. "Chief Warrant Officer Holland, I asked a question. I expect an answer. How many of those bastards raped you?"

  7

  The question ripped through Kate, all but screaming inside her as Sergeant Fremont waited for her to acknowledge it. Just as her battered breasts, bruised thighs—and worse—had screamed for acknowledgement when she'd regained consciousness in that sweltering, mud-brick hovel.

  How many of her captors had raped her? And how many times had they come back for more?

  Somehow, she managed the truth. "I don't know." That nauseatingly vivid Afghan pottery invaded her brain. "I only remember the last one who tried. He was a kid, really. Fourteen, fifteen tops. I didn't know if he'd already taken his turn, and was returning for seconds. I didn't care. He was carrying one of those cobalt blue jugs they make over there. He said it contained water. He ordered me to clean myself so I wouldn't contaminate him while he had his fun. All I saw was a potential weapon and the wooden door cracked o
pen behind him."

  "You broke the jug and used it."

  She nodded. "The handle was solid. Plenty sharp enough." The splintered end had cleaved through the kid's carotid like warm butter. A split second later, both she and her latest would-be rapist were bleeding. But he was dying.

  Those huge brown eyes had just stared at her, unblinking as he'd grabbed at his neck. Astounded.

  "What happened after you escaped?"

  She reached for the memory—but, as usual, blackness swirled in instead. She sank into the abyss, embracing the numbing warmth that cushioned her fall.

  "Kate?"

  She stiffened as the room snapped into focus. Fremont was touching her, his callused fingertips soothing the top of her right wrist as she twisted the dive watch around her left. The buckle had dug into her skin so deeply, it had left a bracelet of raw scratches in its wake.

  Kate jerked her hands to her lap and locked her fingers together.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Absolutely." It was a bald-faced lie, and they both knew it. But it was easier than the truth.

  Safer.

  The self-doubt returned with a vengeance. What was she doing here, voicing things she had no business voicing? And to a veritable stranger? For God's sake, she was screwing Grant and she hadn't been able to admit to a fraction of what she'd just shared with this man. What was it about that crooked smile and steady compassion that made her want to spill it all before she'd even realized she'd opened her mouth?

  She had to get out of here. Before the entire bucket of filth slammed over and came sloshing out.

  She was still sifting through her shredded nerves for a plausible excuse when her phone rang.

  She snatched it from the table, not even bothering to read the caller ID. "Deputy Holland. How can I help you?"

  "It's Debra Yarbrough. You said I could call?"

  The name didn't register, but the voice did. It was the receptionist she'd spoken with in the lobby. "Of course. Did you remember something else?"

  "Yes—no. I mean, Abby Carson just arrived. Ian Kusić's ex? She's pretty out of it, but no one has the heart to send her home. I don't think she realizes how early she is."

  Kate pushed her cup of coffee aside, ashamed at the strength of the relief coursing through her as she stood. "Would you mind asking if she's up to speaking with me?"