Mercy River

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “What happened?” I said.

  Macomber didn’t stir but managed to puff up regardless. “Much of that momentum could be traced to corporate backers. They made promises to match a percentage of the government’s funds. A publicity gambit, but a worthy one. The corporations trumpeted their involvement, which gained public support. If the House passed the bill, the companies would match five percent. Senate passage gained another five. When it became law, a full twenty percent would be covered by donations. Almost eighty million dollars, spread out over a decade.”

  “HaverCorp’s donations,” I said.

  “Philip Havering, yes. The company is privately owned by the Havering family.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Not coincidentally, HaverCorp was up for a large government contract at the time. All of that positive media was effective. Havering got his approval.”

  “And he dropped his support.”

  “Oh, not that obviously. But two of our key congressmen challenged the bill. Another demanded riders on it, such expensive additions that they hobbled debate. I can’t prove corruption, but those legislators had no lack of funds in their next reelection campaigns. Smart business on Philip Havering’s part. Four or five million to save twenty times that amount.”

  It was sort of amazing, Macomber’s ability to project raw fury without moving or changing his voice at all.

  “So you think Havering owes you,” I said.

  “He owes them, the way I see it. The men he cheated. Don’t you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Of course, I’m aware that HaverCorp’s money isn’t Philip Havering’s personal fortune.” Macomber waved a hand as though that were inconsequential. “This isn’t about payback.”

  “Nonsense,” Schuyler said. “You wanted to sting Philip Havering any way you could. Because you can’t stand his ducking out on a deal that you believed would have been your legacy. I know you, Charles.”

  Her words rolled off the general like water from waxed paper. “What I can’t stand is the waste, Schuyler. Havering had a chance to help tens of thousands of people. Instead he chose to slink away.”

  “It was my idea to go to work for the prick,” Conlee spoke up. “I saw the announcement of HaverCorp opening their data center in Portland. I had the experience. It’s always the boots on the ground who have the real knowledge.” He glanced at his father and was rewarded with a nod.

  “Aaron,” Schuyler said, “don’t you see? You’ve helped them point their guns at people. Innocent people.”

  “Nonlethal measures only,” Fain said. “Rubber bullets and tear gas.”

  Schuyler scowled at Fain as she replaced her heels. If she could have used them to step on his face, I was sure she would have.

  “We weren’t sure at first how to use the information Aaron retrieved,” Macomber continued. “After the House bill collapsed, I had been toying with the notion of starting a fund specifically for the regiment. An organization with the flexibility to care for men during their first few years out of the service, especially. Those are usually the hardest.”

  He glanced at me. I was sure Fain had shared my Ranger history with the general. Macomber might have conjectured what I’d been up to in the time since I’d mustered out.

  “John was a friend,” said Macomber, with a slight smile in Fain’s direction. “He shared my opinion that Havering owed his country. Eighty million dollars. We couldn’t possibly recover that much, but we could take enough, safely enough, to get the Rally off the ground. With capital, and an effective track record, other companies would get on board. Success breeds success.”

  “Men have risked a lot more for a lot less,” Fain said.

  And honor would be satisfied. I couldn’t decide if the general was overly confident or actually nuts. My grandfather, working alone, could have done more damage to Philip Havering’s wallet with one score targeting the man’s art collection, or whatever the rich SOB owned.

  “You sound like a true believer,” I said to Fain. “What’s in it for your happy little band, Zeke and Daryll and Rigo? Are they willing to die for the cause, too?”

  Fain’s eyes flickered at that. It was Macomber who answered me.

  “John’s men understood. They stepped up. A few missions, carefully planned and executed. Minimal risk. Then we would be finished.”

  “Does Jaeger know about us?” Fain asked Conlee. “About the Rally?”

  “I don’t know,” Conlee said.

  “I think Erle Sharples figured out Aaron was piping you HaverCorp’s intel,” I said to Macomber. “He was the one who pointed Jaeger toward Aaron, so the skinheads could draw water from that same well. If Erle was that crafty, my guess is that he wouldn’t say anything to Jaeger about the Rally, or about Aaron Conlee being the son of General Charles Macomber. Those were his aces in the hole. Maybe he had the notion to blackmail you later, or he could barter the information to the cops if he ever got busted for trafficking in stolen arms.”

  “That piece of shit,” Fain said.

  Schuyler stood up. “None of this should matter. A madman threatened my life and your son’s life, Charles. If you think you’re still in control of this situation, then you’re just as crazy. Aaron.”

  Conlee looked up at his wife from the couch without lifting his head.

  “I’m leaving here tonight,” Schuyler said. “I want you to come with me, Aaron. If you choose not to, I won’t argue. But it will be the end. Mr. Shaw, thank you for saving us. Truly. You’ve put yourself in a terrible situation to help complete strangers. I’ll always be grateful. And I’ll pray for you.”

  She walked to the sliding glass door and went outside and closed it behind her.

  “She’ll calm down, Aaron,” said Macomber. “You two will talk it out.”

  “You need me here,” Conlee said.

  “I need you safe. On that Schuyler and I agree. Our team can deal with Jaeger.”

  “How?” said Conlee. “Jaeger’s got the next month all laid out for him. Hundreds of truck routes. The same information we copied onto the thumb drive.” He gestured at me, and the general followed his gaze.

  Fain folded his arms. “Once he robs one or two, that information will be worthless.” He turned to me. “After we took down the first two armored cars, HaverCorp changed all their schedules, nationwide, in case someone in their dispatch department had leaked the regular cash pickup times. They didn’t consider that it might be a breach at the database level.”

  “They will,” I said. “The Feds may already have their cyber people on it. They’ll find anyone poking around in there.”

  “They won’t find me,” Aaron said.

  “You’re not listening,” I said. “It’s over. Jaeger’s going to hit another truck. More guards will die, and maybe bystanders, too. Call the cops. Call Philip Havering. Head this off before it happens.”

  “There’s another option,” Macomber said, almost under his breath.

  I was ahead of him. “I politely hand over the information to you, and you use it to intercept Jaeger and his men.”

  Fain smiled tightly at Macomber. “Told you he was smart.”

  “And then what? You kill them?”

  The general’s mouth twisted, like he was tasting the idea. “Jaeger has murdered two people that we know of. A court might reach the same conclusion.”

  “So much for nonlethal measures.”

  “I don’t like the idea of killing, either,” said Fain, “but what choice do we have? Even if we prevent Jaeger from robbing a truck now, he’ll come after Aaron and his wife. Let us handle this. Give us the drive.”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter, Dad,” said Conlee. “I can run the same search.”

  Macomber leaned forward, still focused on me. “Jaeger is scum. The worst mankind has to offer.”

  I agreed, completely. But it didn’t change my decision. The general wanted total victory, to eliminate the threat of Jaeger and
retain his golden goose at HaverCorp. Money for the cause. I stood up and walked to the door of the little stone house.

  “Sergeant Shaw,” the general said, “your file revealed more about you than your accomplishments. Were you aware that you nearly peered out during selection?”

  I wasn’t. Ranger classes, near the end of assessment, rate and rank their fellow candidates. Who they would most like to serve with, and why. Those who peer low may be dropped entirely, no matter what else they’ve done to earn their way. If you don’t have the confidence of your brothers, you don’t have anything.

  “Your performance ratings were excellent,” Macomber continued, “as was your combat record later. But you were lucky to be there at all. Your classmates found you arrogant, and more than willing to game the rules for your own gain.”

  “Right on both counts,” I said. “Get to the point, General.”

  “You’re a man who needs a purpose, I think. And I also suspect you haven’t found it since you left. You can make a difference. Help us.”

  I left. Before the son of a bitch actually convinced me.

  Thirty

  I needed a drink. But first I made a phone call.

  “You know how time zones work, right?” Ochoa said.

  “Hello, Armando. This will be quick.”

  “Damn right it will. I’ve got a date. I’m hanging up.”

  “One question. You probably already have the answer somewhere in the service records you got before.”

  I told him what it was. He cursed, but spared three minutes to find what I needed to know, and then a woman’s voice called in the background and Ochoa ended our conversation without another word.

  Minutes passed while I sat in the driver’s seat of my truck and considered the implications of what Ochoa had told me. One domino clicking into the next, until everything around me fell down.

  Maybe I needed six or seven drinks.

  I drove the Dodge down Main Street. Past the chain-link fence where the Wall of Remembrance boards had been. The boards were stored away now. Unless that was bullshit, too, like the Rally’s corporate sponsors. Who gave a crap where the money came from? In its scattershot way the Rally managed to help a lot of vets. I wasn’t blind to that.

  But it still felt like Macomber had soiled something honorable with his personal grudge. Brightly colored wallpaper hung over dry rot.

  With the Rally over, I had my pick of parking spaces, and the saloon was nearly empty. Jim Seebright stood behind the counter, serving a glass of red wine to the lawyer Henry Gillespie.

  “This seat taken?” I said to Gillespie.

  He allowed his head to tilt half an inch. I sat down and ordered an ale and a shot of Black Bush.

  “You neglected to mention over our game of poker that you’re a friend of the man who killed Erle,” Gillespie said, focused on his wine glass.

  “I am. But he’s innocent.”

  Gillespie didn’t bother to reply to that.

  “The jamboree’s over. Shouldn’t you be gone?” Seebright said.

  “You guys don’t think much of the Rally,” I said.

  Seebright’s mouth pursed. “I don’t bite the hand.”

  “But it’s curdling,” said Gillespie, as much to the bartender as to me. “Whatever the high-and-mighty general asks for, this town salutes and bends right over. This horror with Erle . . .” He waved a hand. “It’s the expected outcome of inviting gunmen here.”

  “Gunmen who saved your town from becoming Skinhead Central,” I said, downing the shot. “As long as we’re being honest.”

  Gillespie looked stunned.

  Seebright actually laughed. “That’s darned honest, all right,” he said.

  “Tough day. I’m pissed off at the world.”

  “We were on our way to solving the problem of the supremacists ourselves,” Gillespie said.

  “Sure. Fifteen or twenty years of writs and injunctions, and you’d have the First Riders by their tattooed balls.”

  “You’re unusually well-informed, fella,” Seebright said.

  Gillespie grimaced. “What are you arguing for? Vigilante justice?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m working hard to find the good in the bad. Speaking of . . .” I took a pull on the beer. It tasted like the first of many to come. “Why were you friends with Erle Sharples? Everybody I’ve talked to says he was the local shit-stirrer.”

  “I am aware,” Gillespie said, unkempt brows meeting in the middle, “that Erle could be argumentative at times. And that many didn’t like him, and thought him shady. But he was also sharply intelligent, and funny as all hell when he chose to be. I suppose I was Erle’s friend because he let me be, which was a rare thing for him.”

  “That’s fair,” I admitted, and ordered another shot.

  “Why are you friends with a man who’s confessed to murder?” Gillespie asked.

  “Because no matter what the fuck Leo claimed in court, he didn’t kill Erle,” I said, my voice louder than I’d intended. “Because he stood with me when I needed it most. And because he let me help him right back. Which was a rare thing, too.”

  “Cheers to that,” Gillespie said. He held up his wine glass and we tapped rims.

  The door opened and Dez came in. The men greeted her as she walked to the bar. Gillespie actually stood up, which prompted me to do the same. Dez was wearing jeans and a shiny gold zip-front running jacket. Her cheeks were flushed.

  “I saw you through the window,” she said to me.

  “A drink?” I said.

  “God, yes. The Rally is over, and I can go home. What’s that?” She pointed at the shot glass.

  “Bushmills.” I held up two fingers for Seebright, who was giving me side-eye, saying, Way to go. Or maybe, Watch out, she’s the constable’s girl.

  “Susan, I looked into what you asked me,” Gillespie said to Dez. “The answer is no. And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said. “It was just a thought. I’m better off.”

  “Catch me up,” I said.

  “You’re the one who gave me the idea,” said Dez, “about contesting wills. Whether I might have any claim to Erle’s estate, given his marriage to my mother.”

  “I’m afraid too much time has elapsed since Cecily’s death,” Gillespie said. “You were legally Erle’s daughter, but—”

  “But I don’t like to think of myself that way. Which is proof enough for me that Erle’s house is tainted. I can make my own money and feel a whole lot better.” She sipped the whiskey, and Gillespie and I followed suit.

  “I’ll be signing the remainder of the estate over to Bob Bell tomorrow morning,” said Gillespie.

  “Erle’s last relative?” I asked.

  “For now. Poor Bob is not long for the world himself.”

  “Oof,” Dez said, setting the shot glass down. “I’m wiped. Can you drive me out to my house? I’ve been staying with Jaye all weekend, since she lives right here in town.”

  “I’ll drop you,” I said.

  I said good night to Gillespie and Seebright, both of whom had their eyebrows hovering up around their hairlines. We left them to their gossip.

  “Leo?” Dez said when we were alone in the truck. His name packed with enough emotion for a sonnet.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “There’s some evidence that might point to someone else, but Leo’s lawyer says that’s no good to us until the appeal.”

  She was silent for the time it took us to get off the paved streets of town and onto the gravel back roads.

  “He’ll be free,” she said finally. “I can’t accept anything else.”

  I nodded, appreciating the sentiment if not the logic.

  We turned onto Piccolo Road and neared the house. Dez stiffened.

  “It’s Wayne,” she said.

  Constable Beacham’s silver police cruiser was parked on the concrete slab of driveway. The only electric light in a quarter mile shone from a side window near the rear of the house. The bedroom.
>
  I killed the headlights and let the truck roll to a stop at the edge of the dirt road.

  “Wayne still has keys to your place?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Does he ever do this? Just drop by?”

  “I told him not to. Months ago.”

  When I opened the truck door—slowly enough that it wouldn’t creak—Dez mimicked my movements. I didn’t bother trying to convince her to stay put. We walked on the slope of the ditch toward her place. Nothing moved at the house.

  Wayne was a cop. Cops lurking around at night made me even more wary than if it were a stranger. Walking through the front door felt like a bad move.

  I stepped over the mud and rotting grass at the bottom of the ditch, and Dez jumped to follow me. We crossed the plowed rises and troughs of the fallow field that surrounded the house. Crickets silenced their whirring at our approach, a silent wave preceding us. We stopped to listen at two hundred feet out. The house remained quiet. With the moon hidden behind the clouds, the single lamp in the bedroom seemed as bright as a searchlight. I took a long curving path to come up on the window’s blind side.

  Through the heat-warped pane I saw the foot of Dez’s bed, and the very ends of two legs on it, legs in blue trousers with a gray stripe down the side and thick-soled black oxfords. As if Constable Wayne had lain down on the bed and fallen asleep.

  Dez peered over my shoulder. I heard her teeth click as she stifled a sound in her throat.

  We circled around to the back door. I tried the knob. Locked. I put out my hand, and Dez silently placed her key in it. I let the lock guide me, not so different than using picks, letting each pin lift and release its hold separately. The key turned with a faint click, and the doorknob with it. I held it there with two fingers and motioned for Dez to stay where she was, out of the line of sight from the doorway.

  The rear door opened on the little house’s only hallway. Light spilled from the bedroom onto the hallway’s runner rug, trapping scarab beetles woven into its pattern. The rug padded my footsteps as I walked to the bedroom door.