Moment of Weakness

by KG MacGregor

  “Yeah, I had it all typed up on my laptop while they were bickering back and forth. All I had to do was write in the winner. Somebody found an extra blue ribbon in a box and they called it a tie. But their Wi-Fi was down at the rec center so I had to do one of those hotspots on my phone like Terry showed us.”

  It may have been Marleigh’s imagination, but Bridget seemed to have blossomed into a whole new person in just the last four days.

  “Marleigh, you’ll never guess who called me last night. Maxine Goodson, Rocky’s mother.”

  “Uh-oh, that can’t be good.”

  “It was fan-frickin-tastic!” she declared, slapping the table emphatically. “Rocky told her we were getting a divorce, that I’d been running around on him like a whore.”

  “That’s awful.” She should have known Rocky wouldn’t just disappear without getting in a scathing parting shot. “Right when I think he can’t be a bigger asshole, he goes and proves me wrong.”

  Bridget huffed and waved her off. “Who gives a shit? I don’t care if he told her I blew the Pope as long as he’s out of here.”

  Zann also would be glad to hear Rocky had mentioned the divorce as if it were a done deal. Though Marleigh thought it best not to tell her about the rumors he was trying to spread through his mother. The more she thought about Zann and her friends confronting him at the gun range, the more relieved she was that it hadn’t gone off the rails. Someone as volatile as Rocky could have done something foolish and tragic.

  “What are you guys doing later tonight? I got this coupon for free dessert with dinner at the Storm Café. I want to take you and Zann out…my way of saying thanks for saving my ass last weekend. But it has to be tonight because it’s only good for Wednesdays.”

  “Can’t—Zann had to go to DC and won’t get back till late tonight.”

  “What did she go for?”

  “Something about getting her arm checked out at Bethesda.”

  Bridget opened a salad she’d picked up at Subway, wafting the awful smell of processed turkey and honey mustard dressing. “Did she hurt it again? Please don’t tell me something happened at the gun range. I’ll feel like crap.”

  “No, no…she said it was just routine. They needed to evaluate it so they could keep her active in the system.”

  “Weird. I didn’t know they made them go all the way back. Daddy only had to go to the VA over at Whitewater Junction when his foot flared up. He broke it doing one of those fake parachute jumps on the obstacle course when he first joined the army. Thirty-five years later, guess where he gets a bone spur? His regular insurance wouldn’t cover it—they made him go back to the VA. But I remember him complaining about having to wait like forever to get an appointment. Hey, maybe they’ll have some kind of new technology so Zann can get her hand working right again.”

  Marleigh didn’t notice the injury much anymore and wondered if that was because she was used to it. “Can you tell her arm’s still hurt?”

  “Well…yeah. Everybody can, I guess.” Bridget covered her mouth as though she’d made a gaffe. “It’s not that bad though. Just when she walks, she doesn’t swing that one the same way. And if you watch her for a minute, you can see she tries not to use that hand. Like I noticed she puts her fork down to pick up a glass…that kind of stuff.”

  Zann had worked so hard on improving her strength and muscle control. She’d be mortified to know people still noticed her injury. But she wouldn’t hear it from Marleigh.

  * * *

  Zann slid her butt back on the bench and straightened her shoulders against the wall, ever mindful that she was in the official headquarters of the US Marine Corps. It was strange being surrounded again by so many others in uniform.

  The higher-ranking officers who walked by triggered an unexpected wave of nostalgia for the career she’d always assumed she’d have. In all probability, she’d have been a major by now—perhaps even working in this building or at the Pentagon.

  Instead she was back in Colfax checking construction sites for compliance with the building code. Quite a difference. And yet, there wasn’t a moment of her time with Marleigh that she’d trade for an oak leaf on her shoulder.

  “Captain Redeker?”

  She rocketed to her feet, scanning the busy hallway for who had called her name. A female staff sergeant beckoned her from an office three doors down.

  “I’m Captain Suzann Redeker,” she said smartly.

  “Good afternoon, Captain. I hope you had a pleasant trip.” Though Zann held the higher rank, the sergeant wasn’t required to salute indoors.

  “I did. Thank you.”

  She was led to an inner office barely large enough for the massive steel desk.

  “Please have a seat. The major will be right in.”

  Major Jorge Rodriguez, according to the placard on his desk, a friend of a friend at Camp Lejeune. The folder on his desk was marked “Restricted,” meaning its release might cause undesirable effects. But then the War on Terror had rendered virtually all military information classified at some level, from troop movements all the way down to dental records.

  She’d been in offices exactly like this one hundreds of times. Major Rodriguez’s desk was free of clutter and his walls decorated with framed creeds and Marine Corps emblems. The visitor chairs were more cushioned than she’d expected, a welcome change from the marble bench in the hall.

  At the sound of footsteps, she rose and issued a smart salute, a requirement at the start of a meeting with a superior.

  “Captain, at ease.” The major was dressed similarly to her, though in a long-sleeved shirt with a matching tie. His graying hair looked as though it had been parted with a straightedge, and his posture was ramrod straight.

  “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, sir.”

  “You should thank Lieutenant Colonel McCombs at Camp Lejeune. He’s the one who suggested I fit you in right away. You indicated to him that resolution of this matter was urgent.” He drummed his fingers on the folder without opening it. “Could you elaborate on exactly what it is about your request that warrants such urgency?”

  She was taken aback by the question, though his tone struck her as official rather than challenging, as if he were required to submit a report and needed this detail to complete it.

  “Of course, sir. I recently received a piece of personal correspondence from a family member regarding the death of a soldier under my command. I hoped to avoid a delay in my response.”

  “I see.” He fingered the corner of the file and twirled it slowly, almost absently. “You’ve requested information on the death of Gunnery Sergeant Whitney Laird.”

  “Yes, sir. The correspondence came from Sergeant Laird’s sister, a Vanessa Laird, of Zanesville, Ohio. In her letter, she suggested the details of the sergeant’s death were different from my own personal recollection of events.”

  “Captain, you are aware that as inactive reserve, you are no longer required by the Marine Corps to address requests from family members regarding service members who are deceased, even those who perished under your command. In fact, it may not be advisable for you to do so, since you no longer have access to such classified information as might be needed to provide a proper reply.”

  She held his gaze, trying to hear what he wasn’t saying. He clearly wasn’t eager to share whatever was in the file on his desk. “Sir, as Sergeant Laird’s commanding officer, I was the one responsible for getting her home. I failed to do that and I need to understand why.”

  He leaned back in his squeaky chair and tapped the file against his hand. “There could be circumstances noted in this file that the Marine Corps would prefer to keep confidential for various concerns, which is why they’ve been classified as Restricted. I’m willing to make an exception in this extraordinary situation but I’d like your assurance as an officer that the information won’t leave this room. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gunnery Sergeant Whitney Jane Laird, Third Battalion-Second Mar
ine Division, was killed in action as she engaged enemy combatants in the village of Dahaneh in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan on three January, 2012. At the time of her death she was on patrol with her Female Engagement Team…”

  As he read through the incident report, Zann realized her heart was pounding, that she couldn’t breathe without drawing deep gulps of air.

  “…and within minutes, Gunnery Sergeant Laird succumbed to her injuries, which included six bullet wounds to her thighs, shoulders and neck. The fatal wound in her neck was found to have resulted from a five-point-five-six by forty-five millimeter round…”

  The words thundered in her head. She and Whit were the only two people in the house that day who were firing ammunition that matched that caliber. Vanessa Laird had gotten her hands on a copy of the report in the major’s hands and learned that her sister’s fatal bullet had come from Zann’s M16.

  * * *

  Zann closed her window to shield the setting sun and stretched her legs as far as the seat in front of her would allow. The ninety-minute flight would put her in Burlington at ten thirty, meaning she wouldn’t get home until midnight. That would spare her having to talk, though Marleigh would have questions in the morning about her supposed doctor visit.

  Major Rodriguez had done his best to quiet her distress, but there was nothing he could say to change the fact that she was directly responsible for the death of a fellow soldier. Not just a soldier—a soldier under her command, a friend. Someone who’d once been her lover. So why had she been given a medal for that?

  “You weren’t, Captain. You were given a medal for showing extraordinary bravery. You charged into a hostile dwelling and dispatched four Taliban combatants who had ambushed your unit. Four combatants who at that very moment were assembling explosives that almost certainly would have resulted in innumerable casualties of fellow Marines if not for your actions. There’s no way of knowing how many lives you saved that day, how many families you saved from having to hear the dreaded words that their Marine was lost.”

  She gripped her biceps and flexed her arm just to prove she could. The report made special mention of her injury. Hamza’s bullet had rendered her momentarily incapacitated, that moment being the milliseconds before she realized she could no longer hold her rifle steady with her left arm. It was in that fleeting window that an errant shot had found Whit—who was undeniably the true hero that day.

  For her sacrifice, Whit was posthumously awarded the Marine Corps Commendation Medal, a fine honor but nowhere near as prestigious as the Bronze Star with the Combat-V they’d presented to Zann. It was already a sticking point with enlisted personnel throughout the military that officers typically received higher honors for lesser actions. What would they say if they knew her medal of valor had come through even after officials had learned of her mistake?

  If she were honest with herself, Whit’s death had always held her back from celebrating the honors others wanted to bestow. From the medal ceremony at Camp Lejeune to Marleigh’s newspaper article to being honored at the Fourth of July parade, she’d always felt a solemn remorse that Whit had made the greater sacrifice and gotten less recognition.

  Despite Major Rodriguez’s assurances, the pride in knowing her actions that day had saved Marines at Camp Leatherneck did nothing to erase the horror. The question now was whether or not she could bring herself to tell the people who loved her that she didn’t deserve their lofty esteem. She’d always said she hadn’t done anything special, that her actions that day were the result of the hard-nosed training all Marines went through to prepare for moments like that. Just doing my job.

  From the moment they met, Marleigh had worshipped her as a hero. What would she say if she learned that in the one moment where training and instincts truly mattered, Zann had failed and it had cost a soldier her life?

  Chapter Fourteen

  With her eyes still closed, Marleigh swung her arm across the cool sheets to find the bed empty. Meanwhile the aroma of coffee teased her nostrils and guaranteed she wouldn’t be going back to sleep.

  Zann was sitting at the breakfast table watching the sunrise through the bay window. It had been yet another restless night, another early morning.

  “You’re up early for a Saturday,” she said, sliding her arms around Zann’s shoulders from behind. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Zann patted her hand and shrugged out of the embrace as she stood. “Guess my body had all the sleep it needed. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  A couple of weeks ago, that might have been an ordinary reply. Now it was just another in a growing string of denials and diversions, whatever it took to avoid talking about what had her so on edge. Though Marleigh could pinpoint when it started, she was no closer to knowing why.

  It must have something to do with Rocky because that’s when she started brooding. Zann had yet to come totally clean about what she and her friends had done that day to scare him into leaving town. It must have been intimidating as hell, since Bridget hadn’t heard from him since. She hated to think Zann had crossed a line, that she’d allowed her friends to beat Rocky to a pulp or humiliate him in some way that was beyond the pale. Zann didn’t have it in her to bully someone that way, but had she stood by while it happened? That would certainly explain her behavior over the last couple of weeks, her withdrawal and obvious remorse, like she was wrestling every day with feelings of dishonor that ran counter to her identity.

  She winced at the bitterness of the coffee, which probably had been brewed hours ago. “Hey, why don’t we go out for breakfast? We haven’t done that in ages.”

  “I ate already…just some cereal.”

  “Come on, couldn’t you go for some French toast at Rosie’s? Great way to fuel up for spreading that truckload of gravel.”

  Their supplier had dumped a pile in the side yard the day before while they were at work. That meant hauling it one wheelbarrow load at a time to the driveway and smoothing it out.

  Zann retrieved a cap from a hook in the hallway and pulled her ponytail through the back. “I need to go meet somebody from the veterans group. I’ll take care of the gravel when I get home.”

  “Seriously?” Marleigh blocked her path to the back door. “What kind of veterans meeting gets scheduled for seven o’clock on a Saturday morning?”

  “I didn’t say it was a meeting.”

  “No, you really didn’t say what it was. Or who it was or what it’s about. You’ve gotten so you don’t tell me anything at all.” The deliberate evasiveness wasn’t only concerning—it was infuriating. “Can you not see that whatever’s in your head is affecting me too?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Marleigh. What we do is private for a reason. People talk about things they did, things they feel. When they tell people stuff, they need to know it’s not going to get blabbed all over town.”

  “Right, because blabbing all over town is what I do for a living. Is that what you’re saying? I at least have a right to know where you’re going at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning. Giving me that courtesy isn’t what I’d call spilling state secrets.”

  Zann shimmied by her and out to the back steps. “I’ll be home before lunchtime. If you still want to go out, we can go then. Leave the gravel for me when I get back.”

  In those very few moments, something fundamental had shifted between them—a stubborn acknowledgment from Zann that for the first time since they’d known each other, she was keeping a secret. What could she possibly…a sickening shudder made her want to throw up. No, Zann wouldn’t do something like that. They’d made love only two days ago. If anything, it was deeper, more intense than usual of late. It was only their communication that was off.

  * * *

  Wes’s red pickup truck boasted oversized tires, chrome running boards and cab-mounted fog lights. The sight triggered a mild sense of panic, and Zann braked before she reached the end of the dirt road. This was her last chance to turn around. Once Wes saw her, she’d feel obligated to f
ollow through.

  A stabbing pain in her stomach, probably indigestion or acid from the coffee, might as well have been Marleigh punching her in the gut. Zann could rationalize all she wanted, but there was no denying she’d lied again. The truth about where she was going and why would have set off an argument even worse than the one they’d just had.

  Wes was leaning against the tailgate as she pulled into a space beside him. With his head tipped back, he peered at her beneath the bill of his cap. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

  “Neither was I.” She still had time to change her mind. “I’m not sure I want to do this.”

  “Don’t have to if you don’t want to. S’pose we just have a little fun today and see how you feel about it?” He dropped the tailgate and dragged a small padlocked trunk closer to him. “I’m a SIG guy, you know. Got a sweet Legion here you can try…double-action, three-fifty-seven, fifteen round. Retails for thirteen but it’s got a few rounds on it. ’Cause it’s you, I’ll let it go for a grand.”

  He definitely had champagne tastes when it came to handguns, but she had only a beer budget to work with. Marleigh would miss a thousand bucks from their joint checking account, especially after what they’d laid out for the new roof. “I was thinking something in the five hundred range, more like the Beretta nine millimeter.”

  “You want the one good ol’ Uncle Sam gave you.” His nod was so exaggerated there was no mistaking his condescension. “Great gun for beginners, but that’s not you, now is it?”

  “Maybe it is. If I’d still been able to shoot, they probably wouldn’t have kicked me out of the Marines.”

  He rummaged in the trunk and drew out an aluminum case painted over in a camouflage design. “Fine, here’s a brand spanking new 92FS if that’s what you gotta have. Six hundred retail right off the shelf. But I promise if you shoot this Legion, you’ll want to walk it down the aisle and marry it. I’m serious. Go ahead, try ’em both.”

  There was no one else on the range at the early hour, a fact that made her wonder briefly what Rocky was up to these days, if he’d made it to North Dakota and gone to work in the oil fields like he said. Jeb Hickman wouldn’t miss his paltry donations, especially since he’d picked up at least a dozen new shooters now that the guys in her veterans group knew about the range.