Toward the Sound of Chaos

by Carmen Jenner

  The woman beside him is Georgina Squires. She’d been quiet in high school. One of those sweet, mousy types that teenage boys never appreciated enough—myself included. Growin’ up, she’d been tall and slender as a bean pole. Not much has changed. With the exception of her joining the police force, that is.

  All three officers carry standard-issue batons fastened to their belts, and they’re kitted out with cuffs, mace and Glock 22s. In my head I make a list, this one detailing all the ways I could incapacitate all three officers in five seconds flat.

  “I think we’d be better discussing it at the station,” Murphy says, sucking in his big rotund belly and puffing out his chest.”

  I scrub my hand over my beard. It ain’t like I have much of a choice, but that don’t mean I have to like it. “Just let me grab my keys and I’ll follow you to the station.”

  “Actually, we’d prefer you rode with us,” Sergeant Murphy says.

  I stare at him a beat. “And if I refuse?”

  “It’d be best for everyone if you didn’t, son.”

  “Best for everyone, or best for you?” I challenge. It’s kind of a dick move, but I don’t take kindly to bein’ cornered.

  “Come on now, Tucker, don’t make us use force.” McGinty takes a step forward.

  I laugh. “I bet you’d just hate that, wouldn’t you?”

  A muscle in his cheek twitches, and he reaches out and grabs my elbow. Nuke steps forward with a growl. I act on autopilot. Wrenching my arm from his grasp, I slam my elbow up into his nose with an ungodly crack and he drops like a sack of shit. Within seconds two guns are trained on me, but even the click of the safety doesn’t stop instinct from taking over.

  I head-butt Sergeant Murphy. The man reels back from the blow and winds up flat on my front porch, out cold. Officer Squires aims her gun at my forehead. She looks like a scared rabbit. I don’t make it a habit of hitting women, and I’d sure like to avoid it now. Georgina is just doing her job. Hell, they are all just doin’ their jobs, but I can’t have nobody touchin’ me. Not when they’re trying to lock me up in a room somewhere.

  “Get down on the ground,” she yells. I hold her gaze as I move. I slam my right hand into her wrist, grabbing the barrel at the same time, and transfer the gun to my grip.

  Despite probably having learned all this in her training, Georgina’s eyes are wide with disbelief, she whispers, “What are you going to do, Jake?”

  I empty the clip and shove it in my back pocket, then I pull back on the slide and let the loaded round come out. I hand her back the unloaded gun. Nuke barks at her and I command him to be still and to go back inside. I have to say it several times before he actually cooperates with a whine.

  Dropping to my knees, I hold my hands out in front of me and wait to be cuffed.

  “Behind your back,” Georgina says.

  I shake my head. “I’ll come willingly. They’ll wake up in a minute, and I’d like to be in the car before then so no one has to touch me.”

  She frowns and doesn’t look as if she’s happy with that, but concedes anyway. “I have to put the cuffs on you, Jake.”

  I clench my teeth. “I know. But not from behind.”

  She lets out an irritated sigh. “Oh hell, you’re going to get me fired.”

  “I won’t hurt you,” I assure her. “I saw a threat to my safety, and I snapped. If you can promise me no one else will touch me, I can promise it won’t happen again.”

  I turn and issue a single command to Nuke to stay, and I reach for the door but Georgina lets out a startled cry. I hold my hands up in surrender. “I’m just closing the door; I can’t have him running after us. If he gets out, he will find me, and I can’t risk him being carted off to the pound.”

  She nods and I reach out and grab the knob again. Nuke jumps up at me but I tell him to stay, and then I close the door and turn to face Georgina. I hold my hands out again to be cuffed.

  She pauses a beat as she stares down at the scars on my forearms. She lost an older brother in the air force the year I enlisted in the Marines, and I’m betting that’s the only reason I’m getting special treatment from her right now. She tilts her head toward the car. Her baton is poised and ready to strike if need be, but I don’t give her any trouble. I’m already waist-deep in it.

  I walk to the car like a man walking death row. In a lot of ways, it feels like that. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and my body starts to tremble. I don’t wanna be locked up again.

  I let her open the car door. Old habits must die hard, because she reaches out a hand to place over my head so I won’t bang it on the roof, and I hiss.

  “Sorry,” Georgina says.

  I duck my head and slide in as best I can with my hands clasped in front of me. She shuts me in and I sit with my head bowed, staring down at my hands and the metal cuffs that cinch too tightly around my wrists, and I wait.

  Before long, she walks back to the car with the Sergeant and McGinty, whose nose I just broke. I thank God that Georgina is the one to sit beside me in the back, though the others protest it at first.

  I’m driven to the station and ushered out of the car by McGinty. He touches me again, and my hackles go up. I’m workin’ out the best way to break his cheek bone when Georgina steps in and Murphy tells him to go see medical. He strides off in a fit worthy of a small child.

  I’m taken inside and shown to an interrogation room with white walls, linoleum floors, and a two-way mirrored glass window. A table and two metal chairs occupy it. Sergeant Murphy paces while I’m instructed to sit down. Officer Squires bolts my cuffs to a small steel loop on the table.

  “You wanna tell me what the hell that was all about, son?” Murphy says.

  “I felt threatened, sir,” I say, meeting his angry gaze head on. “It wasn’t intentional, just instinct.”

  “And what about what happened to Jimmy Boem? That instinct, too?”

  “Well, I guess you’d have to ask whoever murdered him that.”

  He don’t miss a beat. He pulls up a chair and glares at me across the table. “I know you and the victim’s wife, Miss Mason, are well acquainted—”.”

  “I didn’t kill Jimmy Boem, sir.”

  “And you’d remember if you did? Word is those scars aren’t the only stripes you earned in Afghanistan. I hear that head of yours took a pretty big hit too, and after seeing what you’re capable of, I’m inclined to believe it.” He stands and paces the room. It makes me edgy, especially when he starts to circle me like a shark with prey in its sights. “Course, it don’t look good you having one of those little episodes of yours right where the murder took place.”

  I frown, trying to piece together the fragmented memories. No one was there. Were they? “I didn’t do this.”

  “We’ll see about that. You certainly have the motive, and I’ve got plenty of witnesses who saw you beating the shit outta him in broad daylight only a few days earlier—”

  “I want my lawyer. Jacqueline Jenkins.”

  Murphy scoffs. “Course you do.”

  “I’m entitled to a lawyer.”

  “I tell you what, you sit tight in here and I’ll get right on top of that.” He walks slowly across the room, opens the door, and wanders through it.

  Panic seizes my gut. The soft snick of the door closing fills me with dread, and I can’t breathe. I survey the room like a wild animal looking for escape. I do not like enclosed spaces. My legs shake, and I yank at my cuffs. It don’t do no good, so I bury my head in against my outstretched arms and try the deep breathing techniques my shrink taught me.

  I can’t be locked up again. I can’t. Even if I’m guilty I’ll take my gun to my head before I’m locked in a prison cell again in this lifetime.

  Hours later, I’m sweating and nauseous, and all the demons of my past have come back one by one to visit me: Bashir, the boys in the courtyard, and the men I failed to bring home.

  The door opens and Murphy walks in, followed by my lawyer. She’s pint-sized, but she
is mighty. “Oh hon, you don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. She doesn’t touch me—she knows better than that—but she does crouch down in her heels and skirt on the floor beside my chair.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Murphy? You lock a POW in a room and leave him there? And where the hell is his service dog? You’ll be lucky you don’t hang for this.”

  “You got some other suggestion of where we should keep him? He broke Officer McGinty’s nose and knocked me out cold. Last time I checked it was illegal to assault an officer of the law. Even for a war hero.”

  “You touched him.”

  Murphy throws his hands up. “How the hell else am I supposed to arrest him?”

  “What are you arresting him for in the first place?” Jacqueline shouts back. “You got nothing on my client but some grainy footage of him having a PTSD-related episode at the scene of the crime from the Pier camera, a camera which would have recorded the shooting since it runs night and day. If Jake Tucker was guilty of murdering that man, wouldn’t you have seen him on it at the time of the incident?”

  “Mr. Boem was shot long-range with an assault rifle, as best we can understand. We’ll know more about the bullets once an autopsy is carried out, but even you have to admit, Jacqueline, him losing his head at the scene of the crime looks suspicious.”

  “Oh, come on now. He’s a prisoner of war who suffered the kind of psychological stress you can’t even fathom in your job pushing parking tickets and shoveling Krispy Kremes in your mouth.”

  Murphy’s double chin wobbles as he shakes his head incredulously. “Now, you hold on a minute.”

  “Unless you’re charging him with assault, you will release him from those cuffs right now, and don’t think we won’t hesitate to sue all y’all for the treatment he’s received here. That’s the thanks he gets for serving his country? You should be ashamed of yourself Sergeant.”

  Murphy unfastens the cuffs, and I pull away as if he’d been holdin’ a knife in place of a tiny set of keys. My stomach roils, and Jacqueline makes a tsking sound before turnin’ back to me. “Come on, darlin’, let’s get you on your feet.”

  I don’t budge, as much as I want out of this room. I can’t trust my legs to carry me right now. “Make yourself useful, Murphy, and get the poor man a glass of water. Good Lord, what kind of establishment are you running here?”

  “We’ll it ain’t a Best Western,” he mutters to himself as he leaves the room. “Goddamn left-wing liberals.”

  “Okay sugar, here’s the deal,” Jacqueline says once he’s out of earshot. “I won’t touch you if you can hop to your feet so that we can get the hell outta here. Otherwise, Murphy won’t be locking you in a prison cell—he’ll be hauling you into the psych ward. Okay? Can you do that, Mr. Tucker?”

  My breath comes in sharp, shallow pants, but I nod.

  “Now you want my hand or not?” She stands and holds her palm out to me. I don’t take it. Instead, I use the wall to push myself up to a standing position. My head swims, and I take a deep breath and press my forehead to the cool cement.

  Sergeant Murphy comes back with a bottled water and hands it to me. I can’t even unclench my fists to take it from him. Jacqueline snatches the bottle off of him and ushers me towards the door. I place one trembling foot in front of the other. My head spins from the noise inside the station.

  “This interview is done. You wanna ask my client any more questions, you need to go through me, or you’ll find yourself buried in so much red tape you’ll be shitting plastic for years to come.”

  “This is bullshit, Jacqueline, and you know it,” the sergeant calls.

  “All I know is that my client remains innocent until proven guilty. You have a nice day, Murphy.” She smiles sweetly, and a tendril of ginger hair falls into her eyes. She blows it out of her face and leads me out of the station by my shirt collar. I’m pretty sure if she hadn’t grabbed on, I’d still be standin’ there, paralyzed with fear.

  Elle waits out front with Nuke. He pulls on his lead and she lets go. Nuke barrels into me, lying himself down at my feet, yipping and barking as his tail wags and he nuzzles into my legs. It isn’t because he’s excited to see me. This is what he’s trained to do, to comfort, distract me from getting’ caught up in my head, and take the lead when I can’t.

  “Oh my God, Jake.” Ellie reaches out to touch my face. I flinch but lean into her before she can draw her hand away. She doesn’t wrap her arms around me, but she doesn’t pull back. She holds me without restraining me, and it’s just what I need.

  “You must be Miss Mason?” Jacqueline says.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ellie nods. “I would have come earlier, but I only just heard.”

  “So did I.” Jacqueline’s lips draw into a hard line. “I gotta say you two, cuddling outside the station don’t look good. I should be charging you double to get you out of this one, Jake.”

  Elle pulls away and turns to my lawyer. “But he didn’t do anything. Jake didn’t do this. I don’t know who did, but I know in my heart it wasn’t him.”

  “Well, that’s sweet and all, but I doubt a jury is going to be impressed with what your heart tells you.” Jacqueline smiles tightly.

  “I have to go.” I grab Nuke’s lead and start walking through the lot.

  “Jake, let me take you home.”

  “I’ll drive,” Jacqueline announces, heading toward her car. “We can discuss your case on the way,”

  “No!” I yell, and glance between them. Ellie’s mouth turns down in a frown, Jacqueline looks impatient. I’d be willing to bet that she don’t hear “no” very often.

  “We need to go over your case, Jake,” Jacqueline calls, but I’m already runnin’ down N Section Street, and I don’t plan on stopping.

  In my driveway, I bend double and spill the contents of my guts onto the pavers, while Nuke collapses in the grass. It takes a minute or two for me to catch my breath, but when I do I can’t stand still any longer. The voices in my head are too loud. I take a step toward the porch and my left leg gives out, forcing me to collapse on the ground. I pushed too hard. I ran too fast, too far, and now I’ll be paying for it for the entire week.

  I just had to get away. I couldn’t stand there in front of her and pretend I wasn’t dying inside.

  I push to my feet again and carefully climb the stairs, limping as my breath seesaws in and out of my lungs. Nuke follows, climbing each step as tentatively as I do, and together we limp inside, shutting the world out behind us. I lock the doors and draw all the blinds and turn off my phone, and then I head upstairs to my bedroom and lie on the floor, shielded by the bed and the heavy pants of my dog’s body alongside mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jake

  Two years, nine months ago

  “Jesus Christ,” Lucky says, wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his fatigues. “It’s hotter than a sweaty nun’s cunt out here.”

  “You know that from firsthand experience?” I say, turning my eyes to the buildings above us, scanning for some sign of life, anything. It’s too quiet. Where are the cars, the rich scents of kabuli, naan and seekh kabab cooked by street vendors, the bustle of people through the market? There are no children here; in every town we’ve been to, from the FOB at Delaram to Sangin to Kandahar to Barmal, there are children everywhere, trying to sell us bootleg DVDs and baseball cards, or charging us fifteen US dollars for a contraband bottle of beer, even if it is some local Afghani shit brewed in a rusted out gallon drum. What I wouldn’t give for a Red Stick Rye right now. Hell, in this heat, I’d even settle for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

  “I thought the preacher was more your thing, Lucky?” Ace mutters, takin’ off his helmet and runnin’ a hand over his pink scalp. He’s gonna be burnt to a crisp out here before Gunner gets done fixin’ the truck. Piece of crap picked a hell of a time to break down.

  Lucky turns and slams his chest against Ace’s, gettin’ all up in his face. �
��Shut your face, limp dick.”

  “Alright, both of you shut the fuck up and keep your eyes open,” I snap, tired of their bullshit. My head pounds like a motherfucker, and the last thing I want is to listen to them bitch one another out like an old married couple.

  “Yes, sir,” Ace says.

  I glare at Lucky. He frowns. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Put your fuckin’ helmet back on, Ace. I don’t need you takin’ a bullet to the head.

  “Yes, sir.” He fits the helmet to his head, and I clench my jaw as Jones strides over from the other Humvee and lights up a cigarette.

  “What are you doin’?”

  “Smokin’,” he says, as if I’m stupid and need an explanation. Sweat beads over his black skin. His outer shirt is tied around his waist, and the reflection from the sun on his white T-shirt practically blinds me.

  “Is no one actually on the fuckin’ job today?” I shout.

  “Hey what about you, Sarge?” Lucky asks, ignoring my mood. “You ever tap any of that sweet southern Carolina pussy back home? You know, those old-money country club types?”

  “I’m from Alabama, dumbass,” I say, and take the cigarette from Jones, inhaling the sharp smoke before coughing it back up.

  “You don’t fuck sweet southern pussy,” Jones says in a Louisianan drawl. “Southern pussy fucks you. And you don’t mess with those bitches unless you want your dick cut off, pared open, and arranged in a vase.”

  He isn’t wrong. You don’t mess with southern women, and if you do, you have the sense not to tell your Marine buddies about it, because she will find out. They always find out.

  “Gunner, I need an ETA on that vehicle.”

  “She’s done.” Gunner slams the hood of our Humvee. “What crawled up your ass today, farm boy?”

  “I don’t know, maybe the fact that we’re broken down in the middle of the fuckin’ tribal areas one hundred miles out from a known Haqquni stronghold, and everyone’s actin’ like we’re on fuckin’ vacation.”