Then the distant man said: “What about the support personnel?”
Breathing, heavily. Right by the mic.
“Fine,” said in a voice that made it sound like it wasn’t. “Yes, sir.”
Boots, shifting, scraping on a hard surface. Boots walking away.
Rubber soles slapped against concrete. Plastic clattered.
Then loud, so loud over the speakers I had turned up to maximum volume: a whisper, the sound of lips moving quickly against the microphone: “That was Nick. I told you about him. He’s workin’ with someone else. I don’t know who. It’s a California number, eight six eight seven nine—”
A thud like a heavy ring slamming into wood, that squealing sound again.
“Beale!” barked the same voice that had been faint a few moments before. “The fuck are you doin’ in there?”
And that voice, that young, near voice, saying loudly over the rustle of fabric, “Jesus. Can’t a guy take a shit?”
Then nothing. That was the end of the track. Two minutes and three seconds.
I didn’t have to wonder what Christine Beale would give to hear those two minutes and three seconds. To hear her boy’s voice one more time, to be proven right, that her son was a good kid. I knew that’s what she would want. I knew that was the right thing to do—in the universal sense, the human sense. I knew it when I listened to it the third time and the fifth. When I dropped the drive into an evidence envelope while I stood in front of the desk at the Sheriff’s Office. While I wrote out a note explaining how I had come by the drive, where I had found it and when. When I handed the envelope over to the deputy behind the desk and gave him an order: “Give this to Sergeant Moses. Darren. Darren Moses.”
And I knew then I’d hate myself for doing the right thing. Right is a relative term.
* * *
By the time I got to Jeremy Leamon’s place, the fields behind his drab gray house were already shrouded by the long shadows of the mountains. The house was small and square, the windows framed by narrow white shutters that needed paint. In front, the grass under the tires of Leamon’s truck was brown and stubbly, like his cattle had gnawed it down to the ground. Barren flower beds lined the foundation.
When I knocked on the front door, there was no answer, so I turned the handle quietly and called his name from the crack.
“Mr. Leamon? You in there?” I said in my county voice. “May I come in?”
A weary voice said from somewhere deep in the house, “Who is it? What d’ya want?”
I opened the door a fraction wider. “It’s Camille Waresch from the County. I was out here last—” I faltered, remembering Leamon’s reaction when Lucky made him face Patrick’s corpse. “I was here last week.”
“You’re Lee Waresch’s girl, ain’t you?” the same voice said, but with a softer tone; less wary, but just as tired.
I said I was, and he said what a good man my father was, how sorry he was to hear he’d died. He’d said the same thing when I’d introduced myself the Friday before.
Inside, the curtains—dingy and yellow with ruffled edges—were drawn over all the windows. Plastic slip-clothed furniture in the sitting room and a dusty dining table lurked in the dim light that made it through.
My Glock was in the truck; my fingers twitched in its absence. I stopped, forced myself to breathe, to stop peering suspiciously into every corner, stop skirting the walls, watching the doorways.
“Your dad was a good man,” Leamon said again, so close this time I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I saw him through the next doorway, a week of grizzled stubble on his cheeks sitting at the kitchen table in a flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows, stray pieces of hay stuck to it.
“Thanks, that means a lot,” I lied.
But Leamon wasn’t listening—that was clear. A coffee cup sat in front of him on the table, but the stale air reeked of cheap whiskey. Every muscle in his body was still, rigid, waiting for something. Even when I pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down, his detached gaze never wavered from his cup.
“Can I talk to you, Mr. Leamon?” I said quietly. When he didn’t answer, I repeated myself, louder. When he still didn’t answer, I just asked the question.
“Whose barn is it, Mr. Leamon?”
He smiled, but faintly, a ghostly smile. “Used to be Don McEnroe’s.”
“But it isn’t his anymore, is it?”
“Naw, Don sold up a few years ago.”
“Whose is it now?”
Leamon shrugged, his shoulders moving jerkily under his shirt.
“Have you ever met the new owner?” I said.
He just smiled.
“When did you start using it?” I asked.
“Five years ago? Six?” He took up the coffee cup, his hand shaking slightly, and drank deeply from it.
“And the owner, they never said anything? Did they use it too?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
Maybe like he didn’t know, or maybe like he didn’t want to know?
“What did you see?” I said.
He glanced up and away so swiftly it might not have happened at all. “Nothing.”
But that was too easy an answer. “Did they keep something there? Fertilizer? Medicines?” I pressed. “Anything?”
But Leamon wasn’t biting. He began to hum, trying to drown me out.
“Did they have a helicopter?” I said, then, when his humming faltered, “Did you see it?”
“Patrick was a nice kid, wasn’t he?” Leamon said it as though it was the most natural thing to say in the world. “I guess he got caught up in the wrong crowd.”
“You know who killed him,” I said and immediately regretted it.
Leamon’s lips thinned and his hand darted under the table. I pushed my chair away from the table and leapt to the door. His hand back on its surface, Leamon laughed, a sort of thick, phlegmy chortle, like tar bubbling out of his throat. I was furious, but I swallowed it, dragged the chair farther from the table, and took a seat.
“Had you seen Patrick before?” I asked. “At the barn, or maybe next door?”
Leamon, still laughing, didn’t answer.
I tried again. “There was a house next door, wasn’t there? Did you see him there?”
“You mean Don McEnroe’s place?” Leamon said, still smiling. “I haven’t been to Don’s place for years.”
I watched his face. He was still smiling, but smiling like he’d just laid down an ace.
“But someone else has,” I said.
A shadow passed over Leamon’s face.
“What were they doing there?” I said. “What were they using Don’s house for?”
Leamon shrugged, looked away.
“What did you see?” I probed. “Deliveries? Someone keeping odd hours? Were there any strange smells? Chemicals, maybe?”
Instead of answering, Leamon just picked up the coffee cup and drank from it, drank deeply and didn’t even wince. I tried a different tack.
“When did it burn, Mr. Leamon?” I said. “When did Don’s place burn down?”
At first I thought it had worked, when Leamon looked back at me with a little smile. But then he said, “It didn’t burn. He sold up. I told you.”
“It burned. I’ve seen it.”
“Naw,” he said, waving his hand at me. “It never.”
“Fine. What’s going on over there, then?”
Leamon stuck out his lower lip, rolled it back and forth between his fingers, but didn’t say anything.
“Did they pay you?” I said. “Was it Nick? What did he pay you?”
Leamon’s eyes narrowed. “My father didn’t like your dad, you know. Said he was a bad influence.”
I shook my head, confused. What the hell did my father have to do with anything?
“And I listened. I listened to everything my father told me back then. Listened to what he told me to do, who he told me to see. But he was a difficult man to please.”
I tried to steer Leamon b
ack. “What about Don? Did your father like Don McEnroe?”
“How could he? He was already dead when Don bought that place.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, chastened.
Leamon laughed, though it sounded more like a bark. “He deserved what he got.”
“What did he get?” I said tentatively.
“Same as that kid.” Leamon nodded to himself, his gaze far off, his mouth set in a vicious, self-satisfied smile. “Got hisself killed.”
What?
My eyes narrowed, my hands closed into fists on my thighs. “Did Patrick deserve what he got?”
Leamon nodded again, absently, like he was remembering something that happened a long, long time before.
I leaned on the table, my fingers spread, my arms tensed to fight. “I said, did Patrick deserve what he got?”
Leamon’s eyes shifted toward me; then he grunted, looked away again. “The hell should I know?” He ground his teeth and his eyes grew wider. He said more quietly, “It weren’t my fault, anyway.”
“Whose fault was it?”
“Hisself.”
I sat back, studied him. His jaw worked like he was chewing on his thoughts, then his eyes widened, narrowed, and widened again. His shoulders shrunk in on themselves, and he clutched the coffee cup closer to his chest.
“You’re afraid,” I said bluntly.
Leamon didn’t respond, but his eyes darted to me and away again.
“Ain’t got nothing to be afraid of,” he said.
“What do you know? What do you know that they don’t want you to know?”
His eyes grew harder, darker. His mouth opened slightly, and I thought he might talk, but then he shut it again.
“They been out to see you again?” I said. “Since Patrick, I mean?”
Leamon remained silent.
“Did they threaten to do the same thing to you? String you up in the barn?”
But Leamon set his jaw, clenched his teeth, and stared past me out the kitchen window.
“Did you see them cooking?” I said. “Did you see them burn the McEnroe place? Did you see them with Patrick?”
But he wouldn’t look at me. He was staring hard over my shoulder, hard enough to punch a hole in the wall.
I slammed my hands, open-palmed, on the table, leaned forward so far I could have spit in his eye. “Did you see them torture him? Did you see them electrocute that kid?”
His eyes, black and thick, focused on me hard. But there wasn’t nearly as much anger there as terror. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t stayed in the barn long enough that day to see exactly what they had done to Patrick Beale.
“Who was it?” I shouted. “Who?”
Leamon looked away, lifted the mug to his lips, drained it, then let it drop onto the table, where it tottered and settled, the handle pointing at his chest. When he stood up, he was fast, purposeful, lithe. When I stood up, startled, the chair behind me crashed to the floor.
Leamon laughed, the same barking laugh as before, but harsher, like the whiskey had torn his throat.
“You need to be more careful, Miss Waresch.”
My cheeks burned hot; I reached for the weapon I didn’t have.
He looked out past the dingy net curtains in the window, out to the fields and the deserted blacktop. He watched, seemingly waiting for someone. And then he said quietly, “You go digging too deep and they’ll kill you too.”
11
A beige door, thick hollow metal and wire mesh in the glass.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A male voice, harassed, from inside the room. “Enter.”
The door swung open. The male—crackling blue eyes, a fuzz of black hair, desert tan—looked up from a laptop that was open on a scratched steel desk.
My voice, distantly: “Major Brittan.”
The man behind the desk leaned back, picked up a pen. “Sergeant Waresch.”
“Sir. Is there any news, sir?”
He smiled crookedly, clicked the pen. “There’s always news.”
“About my soldier, sir. You wanted to think about the evidence I gave you on Tuesday.”
“Oh.” He frowned, and his eyes faded to gray. “That.”
“Do you agree with my assessment, sir? The inventory records clearly indicate he was stealing from the medications locker. Narcotics, sir. And you have my account of him removing items from the hospital.”
“Sit down, Sergeant.” The major clicked his pen twice, then a third time.
“Sir?”
He pointed to the green steel chair opposite him. “Take a seat.”
I nodded, sat down.
“The command is grateful—I’m grateful—that you feel such a sense of … loyalty to the Army and to the soldiers under your command.”
“They’re my responsibility, sir.”
“Let me finish, Sergeant.” The sleeves of the major’s uniform strained against his biceps when he leaned on the desk. “The command is grateful. But your duty is to continue the mission.”
“I am, sir. I just got back from a retrieval.”
“Yes. Another well-executed task, I understand.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You have a good record, Sergeant. Exemplary even. It would be a shame to muddle it now.”
“Sir?”
The major gathered his brow, dropped his chin. “You need an opportunity to refocus, reorient yourself.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sending you out to the field, Sergeant.” The pen clicked again: once, twice, three times. “Tomorrow. Pack your ruck, Sergeant. You’ll muster at zero four thirty.”
“What about—?”
“You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”
Click.
A gray door, heavy steel, just a dark blotch on a concrete-block building in the dead of night. No window.
The tumblers scraped in the lock. A breath of stale, chemical-laden air—bubblegum and formaldehyde—escaped as I slipped inside.
By the pinpoint light of a tiny flashlight, I darted through the big, black doors edged with rubber like on a meat locker, across the concrete floor, and past the stainless steel tables and the deep porcelain sinks. Through another door—hollow steel and a window embedded with metal mesh—left ajar. Inside: a desk, a telephone, a computer, filing cabinets.
Autopsy files, drawers full of them, with no logical order—all the names, all the words in dream script: disordered, distorted. Then one word of many: “torture.” More: advanced state of decay. Electrical burns, cigarette burns, premortem blunt force trauma. Asphyxiation. But where’s the name?
I need a name.
I pawed through the file, flipped through it a hundred times, over and over again, my fingers flying, my eyes scanning every page.
Until.
There was one page in my hands, one page scrawled with unreadable script. But at the top there was a name, the name that had to be there, the name that had been swimming in the darkest corners of my mind since I heard the first fly buzzing around Patrick Beale:
Pvt. Havers, Paul Kerry
Male; Caucasian
MOS: 68W, Health Care Specialist
Date of birth: April 29, 1986
Date of entry: September 11, 2004
Date of death: August 13, 2005
Then, like a movie on fast-forward:
Havers, the newest member of our squad, reporting for deployment the morning we flew to Iraq. He was tall and thin, his cheeks baby smooth, his smile too knowing.
Havers, his face grim and set, running past me to the OR after a call for all hands over the loud speaker. And later that week, Havers, his spine straight, his eyes unflinching and hopeful, asking to be sent out with a convoy. Me, denying the request, telling him, “You aren’t ready. Maybe next month.”
Havers, at attention, his eyes steady and wide and far too innocent when I ordered him to account for items missing from the stockroom. Havers, claiming that everything had been there when he
did inventory the day before. Me, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
And the next month, Havers flashing a too-confident smile, carrying a box of supplies out the side door of the hospital. “Taking them to the quartermaster, Sergeant,” he’d said. “They’re surplus.”
Early in the morning a week, maybe two, after that, Havers carrying a box of exam gloves out to the back of the hospital during the crack between the night shift and the day. “Garbage,” Havers had said and smiled that same smile. “Sat in the heat too long. One of the docs said they were useless.” I didn’t stop him, didn’t check to see what was actually in the box. Didn’t exercise my right—my duty—to make sure my soldier was doing the right thing.
The following month, Havers again requesting permission to go on convoy. Me, denying him again, watching his lips compress, his jaw clench, his cheeks flush, his eyes darken. Havers requesting instead to take a few days R&R back home. Me, denying that request too. Me, knowing my choices were right.
Then a month later, Havers failing to sound off during morning roll call. Havers, conspicuously absent. A few minutes later at the barracks, his bunk neatly made, his gear neatly stowed, and that familiar feeling of absence, of loss heavy and near. Later that morning, after I’d combed the dining hall, the barracks, the movie theater, the hospital, and everywhere else on base I could think to look for my dirt-bag kid soldier … that’s when I went to see Major Brittan behind his desk at the hospital the first time, the major who liked me and my exemplary record. The major with his lips thin, his fingers angrily punching in the number of the base commander’s office, his voice tense and low when he told the commander about a soldier who’d gone missing, who was absent without leave.
A few days after that, Havers, in the cool, stale air of an abandoned, half-blown Iraqi residence.
Havers, hanging in the beam of a soldier’s flashlight. Hanging at the end of a length of polypropylene rope, his chest bare, his feet bare, only the pants of his uniform slung over his narrow hips, the strings meant to secure them at his bony ankles dangling limp instead.
* * *
And then I woke.
My shirt was drenched with sweat, my jeans plastered to my thighs. Blood pounded in my ears like surf breaking on the shore.
Little Falls Page 11
