Moment of Weakness

by KG MacGregor

  Wes answered, “We got each other’s back, right? That was cool what you did for TJ. I never saw anybody so happy to be working in a shit factory.”

  Technically, it was a water treatment plant. Malcolm Shively hadn’t hesitated over her recommendation, giving TJ his first full-time job with benefits since returning from Iraq with his National Guard unit.

  Though there was ample space at the end of the road, they parked directly behind Rocky’s truck in a show of dominance, even going so far as to graze his bumper. One by one, the men retrieved their weapons from the trunk of Leon’s car. Zann no longer owned one and had declined Wes’s offer to use one of his. Her left hand wouldn’t cooperate and she was too much of a perfectionist to show up with a bunch of trained shooters and flail around like a fool.

  The gun range at Jeb Hickman’s farm was far more elaborate than Rocky had described at dinner a month ago, nice enough to turn a tidy profit if Hickman decided to advertise and take the enterprise commercial. For now he still relied on the donation box, clearly marked beneath a sign absolving him of legal liability. The field was deeper than the five hundred yards Rocky had estimated—by her guess it was almost half a mile to the carved-out side of a hill. As wide as a football field and buffered on each side by thick trees, it could easily accommodate eight shooters at the rifle benches and four more at the pistol range, where the covered shooting bays were separated by sheets of lattice.

  When the crew gathered at the open gate, she took a visual inventory of their collective firepower. Leon’s rifle was a semiauto Armalite like the M16 and Moe’s was a bolt action Remington. Both were outfitted with scopes for long-range targeting. The other four men carried sidearms similar to the M9 Beretta they’d all handled in the military. Wes showed off an especially fine SIG Sauer that reportedly cost him north of three thousand bucks.

  The shooting benches, used to help steady a long-range rifle shot, were staggered. Downrange at varying distances all the way to the hillside, someone had hung several aluminum pans and skillets from posts. A shooter would know he’d hit the target by the sound and sway. It really was quite an impressive range for amateurs.

  Rocky was at the far end, all alone at the pistol range. He’d tacked a paper target—the characteristic silhouette of a man’s head and torso—against a stack of hay bales situated twenty-five yards away. Behind the bales was a bullet box, a high bunker filled with sand to trap the errant shots.

  With Zann leading the way, they walked single file to meet him. There was no mistaking his nervousness as he stepped out of the bay and lowered his pistol.

  Leon and Moe stopped with their rifles a few yards away at the shooting bench nearest the pistol range. The colonel wasted no time lining up his first shot, which pinged a skillet over a hundred yards out. Clearly, he still put in time at the range.

  “How’re you doing, Rocky?” As she sauntered toward him, the other four men slipped behind him into the pistol bays and began firing at his paper target.

  Rocky glanced toward the range when Leon struck another pan that clanged like a bell.

  “I figure you know why I’m here, right? We need to talk about Bridget’s accident last night.”

  As she spoke, she studied his demeanor for any signs he might try to do something extraordinarily stupid. Though his eyes darted all around and his hands shook, she was confident the show of force would keep him in check.

  “It must be hard on you being married to a woman who’s so clumsy…how she’s always running into things with her face. I don’t know how you stand it, man.”

  After a handful of shots from the rifle stand, the farthest pan was left spinning. Moe yelled, “No way! Okay, my turn.”

  “These guys…they’re so crazy,” she said with a sardonic laugh. “By the way, I see why you like it out here. It’s fixed up really good.”

  “I don’t have a rifle no more,” Rocky mumbled, as if to suggest it was unfair to threaten him with one. “I sold it.”

  “This business with Bridget…what with her breaking her wrist and getting that nasty cut over her eye. You know how rumors fly around. Some people say it’s you doing that…but then Bridget talks about falling down, bumping her eye on the door…that kind of shit. I don’t know what to believe.” She paused as the men at the pistol range emptied their clips in unison, creating a racket that reverberated throughout the open field. “The way I figure is real tough guys—not the fake ones—they don’t need to practice on women, you know what I mean? Take my friends here for instance…they’re tough, all right. But they don’t go home and beat on their wives and girlfriends. And they don’t like men who do.”

  “I didn’t mean for her to get hurt. It was just an argument and I accidentally made her fall. I felt so bad about it.” His whining was pathetic. “I was going to call her later…tell her how sorry I am. She knows I’ll make it up to her. And I’ll be really careful from now on. It won’t happen again.”

  It was exactly the response she’d expected, probably the same one Bridget had heard over and over. “That’s right, Rocky. Never again. It’s important you understand that this time.”

  His cheeks had turned as red as a schoolboy’s.

  “Tell me you do.”

  “I do.” He nodded stiffly.

  “Good, good. Now about you calling her to apologize…that won’t be necessary this time. In fact, starting right now you’re going to leave her alone. No more seeing her, no talking to her, no texting her…not ever again. Are we clear? She’s finished with you for good.”

  His jaw twitched with unconcealed rage. What galled him most—losing control of his wife or being pushed around by a woman?

  “Bridget says you’ve been talking about moving to North Dakota.”

  “I got a brother who works out there in the oil field. Makes in a week what I make in a month.”

  “That’s just great.” She rubbed her hands together. “So what do you say we make this your going-away party? People around here are going to find out what you did—my friends will make sure of that, starting today. Who wants to hang out with a guy who beats up on his wife? So this would be a good time for you to go home and pack up all your stuff in that shiny truck of yours and start driving west. I bet you could be in North Dakota by Tuesday.”

  After a small wave to indicate she was finished, her friends holstered their guns and began heading back to the parking area.

  She took a folded document from inside her jacket. “Oh, and I need for you to sign this. It’s a petition for divorce. Bridget’s already filled out her part and signed it. She’s going to file it at the courthouse first thing Monday morning.”

  He studied it only briefly before accepting her shoulder so he could scratch his name on the line.

  Wes stopped to hand Rocky the ragged remains of his paper target, which he and the others had shot to bits. In his deep Southern drawl, he said, “Whatever the cap’n just told you, it goes double for the rest of us. If I was you, I’d be hightailing it outta here”—he pointed to the emblem on his beret—“’cause I didn’t buy this on the Internet.”

  “One more thing, Rocky. I know you’ll be gone and all, but if Bridget should ever fall down the stairs or run into a door again…my friends will take that personally. And you’ll never see it coming.”

  On her way back to the car, she stopped to shove a couple of twenties into Hickman’s donation box. Money well spent.

  * * *

  If what she and her friends had just done wasn’t blatantly illegal, it was as close to the line as they could get. There wasn’t one among them who’d actually shoot Rocky, but they’d be happy to make his life a living hell—just as they’d done to Daryl Phillips when Reese shared her story about what he’d done to her in Iraq. While Daryl had managed to hold on to a friend or two, his girlfriend had dumped him and he was no longer welcome at any of Colfax’s watering holes. It was only a matter of time before he moved away to start over, out of Reese’s life forever.

  Marleigh
had been right to encourage her to join the veterans group. She’d missed the camaraderie of the Marine Corps more than she realized, and not just the companionship. The events their group had planned—volunteer outings, toy drives for Christmas—gave her a chance to recapture a feeling of togetherness and common purpose she’d taken for granted as a Marine. She liked walking into that basement room at the church and knowing everyone there had shared the experience of being shipped off far from home and asked to put their life on the line for a military operation. After today, she also knew she had loyal friends she could call on if she ever needed anything.

  Pulling into the driveway alongside Marleigh’s Subaru, it occurred to her they ought to pick up Bridget’s car today in case Rocky decided to trash it. The screen door banged behind her as she entered. “Marleigh?”

  “We’re back here in the kitchen.” Marleigh handed her a fresh cup of coffee. “We’ve been going over the joint property list you downloaded last night. I can’t believe how easy it is. Way easier than getting married.”

  Bridget looked up anxiously from the breakfast nook. “What happened? I need to know everything he said.”

  She laid out the paper with Rocky’s signature. “I don’t think you’ll be seeing him anymore. I’ll go over to the apartment with you on Monday to check it out, but I expect all his stuff to be gone.”

  “Oh, my God!” Bridget put her hands to her cheeks as tears flooded her eyes. “Please tell me you’re serious.”

  “I suggested North Dakota like you said. I’m pretty sure it won’t be Vermont.” She snagged a strip of bacon from a plate on the stove and paced the kitchen as Bridget and Marleigh peppered her with questions.

  “You really are a hero—just like Marleigh always said,” Bridget gushed.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Zann said sheepishly. “All I did was make a few suggestions. It was the other guys who convinced him.”

  “She’s always been my hero.” Marleigh wrapped her in a hug, still addressing Bridget. “Remember back when I first met Zann and interviewed her for the paper, how excited I was? How could I not fall for somebody like this? She’s so amazing.”

  “Oh, please.” Zann had gotten her fill of their fawning and headed down the hall to the living room. Several envelopes were stacked on a side table near the front door. “The mail came already?”

  Marleigh shouted from the kitchen, “It’s yesterday’s. I forgot about it, what with everything else going on.”

  The stack was mostly junk. On the bottom was a letter addressed to her, handwritten in a flowing script she didn’t recognize, with no return address. The faded gray postmark was hard to read in the dim light of the living room lamp. A creative solicitation probably, made to look like a personal letter.

  She turned it over to rip through the seal and discovered it did indeed have a return address, written in the same hand as the script on the front. No name, just a street address in a city that sent a shudder up her spine. Zanesville, Ohio.

  “Anything important?” Marleigh called.

  “No…nothing.” She knew only one person from Zanesville—Staff Sergeant Whitney Laird. Her former lover.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I’m going to need a cold shower,” Marleigh said, fanning herself at the sight of Zann in her Marine Corps uniform. It still fit her beautifully, the iconic blue pants with the distinctive Blood Stripe and an open-collared khaki shirt. Her chest was adorned with a rack of ribbons three rows high and a silver marksman medal. “What’s a girl gotta do to get you to wear that to bed sometime?”

  Zann cracked a vague smile that was too grim to be considered playful. Something was bothering her, no matter how much she insisted otherwise. She’d been sulking for the past four days, ever since she got back from her showdown with Rocky.

  “I can’t get over them giving you all of three days to get down there for a checkup. And why Bethesda? Couldn’t you have gone to the VA over at Whitewater Junction?”

  “I told you, they sent another letter but it must have gotten lost or something. I wouldn’t even have known about it if she hadn’t called Monday to confirm. Miss something like this and I’m considered AWOL.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just too bad we didn’t have more notice. I probably could have gotten time off too. It would have been nice to hang out for a few days in DC. See the monuments, the museums.” She persisted with her wish list despite the fact that nothing in Zann’s demeanor even remotely suggested she wanted company. “And frankly, it just seems like a waste to go all the way down there and back on the same day.”

  Zann rolled her eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. “I get it, you’re annoyed. Did it occur to you that I might not like DC, that I might resent having to go back there because that’s where I had three surgeries? We’re not going to fix all that by gawking at monuments. Now can we just drop it?”

  “Fine! I didn’t realize my wanting to go with you was so intolerable.” She spun in the doorway and marched indignantly to the kitchen. It was bad enough that Zann wouldn’t tell her what she was brooding about. She didn’t seem to care about her feelings either.

  Moments later Zann came in and embraced her from behind, dropping a kiss on her neck. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Obviously I’m the one annoyed about them springing this on me at the last minute. I wish we could have planned it out for you to come with me. As it is, I’ve got so much to do at work that I barely have time to get down there and back, so it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.”

  It was unusual for them to fight, especially over trivial things. But when they did, it always ended exactly like this. Nothing was so important that it couldn’t be smoothed over with a kiss.

  “I probably couldn’t have gone anyway. Clay wants me ready to go to Montpelier whenever they start the hearings on the runoff in Otter Creek. That could be any day.”

  “We’ll do something fun soon. I promise.”

  “Something involving you in that uniform, I hope.”

  * * *

  Zann had a window seat in the cramped regional jet. Any minute they’d start tacking along the Potomac past the Washington Monument and Capitol Building, but the majestic sights were no solace for her guilt. Not once since they’d met had she lied to Marleigh, certainly not on a scale like this. A compulsory assessment at Bethesda Naval Hospital to ensure future benefits? Not only was it an elaborate lie, it had rolled easily off her tongue with uncommon conviction. She’d even piled it on thicker by claiming an aversion to the whole city caused by the time she’d spent there in treatment.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has begun our descent…”

  If her guilt weren’t enough, she also had to worry about getting caught in her deception. As a reporter, Marleigh had easy access to regulations and statutes that would debunk her excuse.

  The reason for the visit had nothing to do with military benefits, or for that matter with the hospital at Bethesda. After receiving the letter on Saturday, she’d done a frantic online search for military records but reached a dead end. The soldier archives she needed were kept in St. Louis and accessible only by family of service members. That left her only one option—the Marine Corps Office of the Commandant in DC. It held records of every Marine who’d died in action. Unless those records were protected by secret classification, they were subject to release through a request under the Freedom of Information Act. The problem was that processing one of those could take months if not years. Zann couldn’t bear to wait that long for answers. She’d used a Camp Lejeune connection to get her to the front of the line if she presented herself in person.

  Her only luggage was a zipped leather binder in which she carried a blank tablet and the letter from Vanessa Laird, Whit’s younger sister whose social media profile showed her living in Zanesville and teaching history at the local high school. Whit had bragged endlessly about Vanessa, the first in their family to graduate from college. However, it was Vanessa who had the bigger case of hero worship, evidenced by the let
ters from home that Whit read aloud to her fellow soldiers.

  Zann knew as well as anyone the prideful effect military service had on family members. Marleigh’s sweet words of respect and admiration echoed in her ear all the time, but today they brought an almost unbearable shame. My hero. My shining warrior.

  After an unusually bumpy landing in crosswinds, they taxied to the gate and filed out.

  “Thank you for your service,” the flight attendant said, offering a handshake. It had been a while since Zann had heard that—and today was the first time it didn’t fill her with pride.

  Stopping in the ladies’ room, she took stock of the soldier staring back at her in the mirror. Her pride in having worn this uniform was a defining characteristic of her life, as an honorable Marine who’d served her country with integrity and valor. But if Vanessa Laird was right, she’d never see herself the same way again.

  * * *

  Marleigh cleared a space at the break table and sat down with her lunch of microwaved leftovers. Reporting on an accident with minor injuries involving a school bus had kept her out of the office most of the morning. Bridget usually got the traffic-related assignments, but she’d been in Rutland all morning covering the county’s annual quilt show, an important story for a loyal segment of their readers. Marleigh admitted to herself that she didn’t mind the occasional spot news assignment, as it kept her reporting skills sharpened.

  Bridget clomped into the break room in platform sandals that made her nearly six feet tall. “Who wants to look at quilts when it’s ninety frickin’ degrees in the shade? Thought I’d never get out of there. They were handing out the ribbons and got down to the last two. The judges couldn’t agree, and I swear I thought there was going to be a rumble about it. Now that’s a story everybody would read.”

  “So did you get it filed?” Their deadline was thirty minutes ago.