“Okay, I get it,” Captain Woods said as he accompanied First Sergeant Wilson on a sweep through the barracks with an MP holding the leash of a drug sniffing dog. “The sergeants get to live off-post if they want. But technically, a single corporal should be living in the barracks.”
“Well, Starr does maintain a bed and a locker here. As long as he shows up for formation every morning, what does it matter?”
What mattered was that Starr was hiding something. Mueller too. And Wilson was protecting them, if not in on it himself. How convenient. The man gets to maintain a clean, empty locker and regulation made bed, which only has to be redone maybe once every three months. “I guess it doesn’t. Where is everyone anyway?”
“It’s a Saturday afternoon, sir, the last place they want to be is the barracks, where they’re likely to get scabbed for a detail if they hang around.”
“I guess I don’t poke around here as much as I should.”
“That’s my job, sir.”
“Nothing here sir.” the MP reported.
“All right, thank you specialist.”
“No problem sir.”
“And thank you for spending some afternoon time here, first sergeant.”
“No problem.”
Both the MP and the first sergeant left the barracks. Even though it was a Saturday afternoon, it was strangely empty. Goddamn strangely empty. Except for one lone figure lying on the bed on the far corner of the large room. The captain walked over. It was Chang.
Chang got of the bed and stood at attention as the captain approached him. “Sorry sir, I didn’t realize that was you in here.”
“Sit down, Chang. I realize I’m not your favorite person right now, but you have to understand that somebody’s running drugs through this company and nobody seems to want to fess up.”
“A lot of guys are spooked.”
“Spooked? About what?”
“You didn’t hear about Jefferson?”
“You mean about that bar fight he got in to last week?”
“That wasn’t a bar fight. Some guys wearing white sheets grabbed him and worked him over as he was walking back to the barracks. Called him a nigger. Said they would kill him. And then Horowitz found that swastika carved on his locker. That’s why the black guys are hanging together, and everyone else is sticking to their cliques.”
“Does the first sergeant know about this?”
Chang shook his head. “Top acts like it’s their fault.”
“I’m going to ask you a direct question. Your non-response will be taken as a yes. In your opinion, do Sergeant Mueller and Corporal Starr have something to do with that?”
Chang sat on the mattress with a stone face.
“I see.”
Damn, it was a long day. Fifteen hours of solid driving, and that was going full bore. At least, navigation was easy. Just jump on the 5 heading north and stay on it, all the way up to Lakewood, a district just south of Tacoma adjacent to Fort Lewis. The 5. This southern California thing is rubbing off on him. Everyone else in the country calls it ‘Interstate 5’ or ‘I-5’, but south of the Grapevine Pass they call it ‘The 5.’
Rex grew some hair, and enough to significantly mask his appearance. Some people look the same with or without hair. Some people look completely different. Rex was the latter. Nobody had seen him since he wore the short high and tight ‘Ranger’ haircut. As long as he didn’t engage anyone, he could pass as part of the local grunge crowd with his unshaven face and torn jeans; nobody’s going to pay too much attention. Plus there’s been some turnover. People are getting shipped out every day.
Most of the junior enlisted GIs from Fort Lewis and McChord Air Force base tend to hang out at the sports bars in Lakewood and Parkland, which are pretty much right there. As the food chain goes up, the crowd goes north to Tacoma and even Seattle proper. And then there are the cowboy bars, which start north of Tacoma and become more upscale as you move into Seattle. Technically, they are country western bars, not cowboy bars. They cater to urban cowboys, not people that actually know how to ride horses and look up the prices of livestock commodities daily as they eat their breakfast.
It was a little bit late in the evening to go to Whiskey Joe’s, given that it was a school day. Guys like Mueller, Starr, and Top Wilson usually go there about five nights a week. Fridays and Saturdays are a given. Maybe a Wednesday and a Thursday. Sunday is dead. Monday is dead. Tuesday, maybe, maybe not. It didn’t matter anyway, after getting up at four in the morning and crossing two state lines, Rex just wanted to sleep. There were a handful of cheap motels off the freeway. Pick one, check in, grab a six pack at the corner store, and plan the next day, or week, or however long things might take.
Everything was a mission for Rex, everything. Those first three beers went down quick. It’s amazing that he can drink that stuff and stay as lean as a rail. They say that, at some point in life, that will change. But for now, enjoy it. He flipped on the local evening news. It’s not raining tonight. It is raining tomorrow and the next day. It always rains in this damn place. That’s what sucked so badly about being stationed here. It rained every goddamned day. You couldn’t stay dry. You had to adapt to being wet. The familiar feel of cold, worn parkerized finish of the M1911 pistols was replaced by the Sig Sauer P226 he managed to scab off that immigration agent. It’s not that he was looking for gunplay, but you never know. It’s better to have the option and not need it, than not to have it when you do.
Although justice for Captain Lewis was altruistic and lofty, there was another sneaking little nugget of attraction that caused Rex to gravitate back to this godforsaken, cold, rainy forest. That diner off-post that had the killer breakfast. Not the diner itself, but the waitress. He had gone there with his buds a few times. He used to watch her. She caught him watching her. She would smile. He never caught her name. She never took his order. She had golden brown hair, almost a redhead, but not quite. And those steel grey eyes. There were days when he wish he could just camp out there, alone, free of his buddies, in the middle of the morning when the place wasn’t busy. Maybe he could pick up a good paperback to read. There would be a lot of downtime, so why not?
Rex was disappointed. She wasn’t there. Then again, it’s the luck of the draw to have any given person there on any given day. Maybe, she went to the evening shift. That would be problematic. Rex needed evenings free, for the most part, to spy on Mueller and Starr. There was something about the diner coffee. It was coffee for the common man. Rex never really cared for the taste of plain black coffee, but the diner coffee wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t bitter. Seattle is a coffee place, with lots of coffee shops and coffee aficionados that practice and preach coffee snobbery. Indy specialty coffees are the big thing. And they are all goddamn bitter. They make you practically wretch when you try to drink them. These damn, snooty coffee snobs sit around sipping steaming black liquid that tastes like battery acid and pretend it’s the greatest thing on earth. They do that all morning long, then all evening long, they drink these goddamn bitter overly hopped craft beers with an almost syrupy consistency, and pretend those are the greatest thing on earth too. It must be the constant rain; it makes people do strange things.
The large waitress with the hairy armpits and holes in her stockings placed a plate with a big omelet, sausage, bacon, and a biscuit, all covered with creamed beef, on the table. Creamed beef was a specialty. It was a military thing. You go to the mess hall and you get eggs. Usually, you could get an omelet. Sometimes, you could get a sausage. Other times, it might be bacon. And on special days, it would be creamed beef. Just dump it on there. The nice thing about the diner is you could get all of them at once, and more of them.
“Hey?” Rex asked the waitress. “What happened to that one girl, the waitress; the one with the wavy reddish-brown hair, birthmark on her left cheek...”
“Oh, Carol. Yeah, she doesn’t work here anymore. She left a couple weeks ago,” the waitress replied.
“Damn.”
“This ain’t a career destination for everyone, honey.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You a bookworm are you?”
“Huh?”
“That book you got there.”
“Oh. Yeah, I like to read.”
“Well, you might try out the Tacoma Public Library.”
“Thanks. Anyway, do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“We really aren’t supposed to tell people where former employees have gone.”
“Understood. No problem.”
“Like I said, you really might want to check out the Tacoma Public Library.” The waitress gave a wink.
The food sat on the table before him. There was toast. Butter. Jam. Rex pretty much devoured everything in sight. In retrospect, he really hadn’t eaten all that much in the past several weeks running between California and Mexico. Don’t catch up too much.
There was very little ambiguity about the waitress’ message. It was a big, two story block of a building with an older look to it. He walked through the detector gates inside the door, and methodically browsed the library from front to back, and then the upstairs. And there she was, working a reference desk. Rex nonchalantly meandered through the rows of bookshelves, looking at the various sections. Fiction. Historical. Photography. Rex loved looking at photography journals. He almost forgot about the 35mm single lens reflex camera he had left behind. It was probably the most valuable piece of property that he kept at the barracks. And then there were the pictures. The shots around Fort Lewis. Photos of various places where the unit mobilized on training missions. It was a shame he couldn’t bring it with him to Grenada. A few guys bought small instamatics that they could stash for the trip. He thumbed through a few of the large, hardcover photo journals and pulled one out that looked particularly interesting, and took a seat on the table by the reference desk.
Carol looked over at him, squinting slightly, as if she had just a hint of recognition. He smiled. She went back to filing some cards. The real question was, what would be the fallout for his recognition? She knew his face, she knew he was in the service from his haircut, but she didn’t know his name. She didn’t know he was a Ranger. He could have been supply. Hell, he could have been Air Force. But then again, the haircut. Yeah, right. Of course, to Carol, they’re all one and the same anyway, so why sweat it? Plus, what would be the probability that she would run in to one of his former buddies and say, ‘hey, I saw your friend the other day...’ Not too likely, and getting less likely by the day. Particularly now that she works at the library.
In high school, Rex had no confidence with girls. A lot had changed, and in a relatively short few years. He was literally a different person. Right now, he just needed to figure out a reason to open up a dialogue. She almost looked like she was ready to, but she didn’t. That didn’t mean he couldn’t.
But there was a bigger issue to examine here. He didn’t come all the way to Seattle just for Carol. If Lewis were not an issue, he probably wouldn’t have come here at all. No real reason to be. Simon was, and rightly so, angry with him for engaging in relationships with So-Young in Korea (how the hell did he find out, anyway?) and Kirsten Maples. You need an outlet? We have a lab full of cups. Grab as many as you need. The one thing that both of those women were, and this girl, Carol, was not, was a link to his past. Sure, Carol recognizes his face from his pre-Rex days, but that’s the extent of it. Simon surely wouldn’t hold him to strict chastity for the rest of his natural life. Besides... Rex, get a grip on yourself! What are you thinking? What are you trying to rationalize? The reality of the situation was that he started getting ahead of himself. Way ahead of himself. Carol represents temporary companionship that makes the down time less dull for the real mission. The problem is, if you aren’t careful, these things can turn in to ticking time bombs. And sometimes even if you are careful.
Rex strolled over to the counter and looked at Carol. “You used to work at Dillon’s, didn’t you?”
“I thought you looked familiar. You were one of the soldiers, weren’t you?” Carol asked.
“Yeah. You used to wait on everybody there. Everybody but me.”
“Silly, we have assigned sections. You guys never sat in my section.”
“Well, okay, that makes sense. I guess uh, I’ll... anyway, I’m Rex.”
She hesitated, as if a thought came to her mind. “Laura.”
“Right. See you. I’ll let you get back to work.”
What the hell, Rex thought. Laura? Somebody isn’t telling the truth. That didn’t go well. No matter. Rex returned to the desk and intently studied the photographs. They were old, black and white World War II pictures taken by a famous photojournalist. The history was fascinating, and history through photos is so much more telling. What time was it? Mid-morning? About lunchtime? Rex wasn’t the slightest bit hungry.
He engrossed himself in the book primarily to redirect his own frustration. His attention was so focused he failed to see the presence beside him.
“Hey,” Carol said.
Rex was startled. “Hi.”
“Just so you know, my name is Carol, not Laura.”
“You look a lot more like a Carol than you do a Laura. Why would you say your name is Laura?”
“I guess I’m a little spooked about my ex. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t some sort of stalker or something. You just look... I don’t know, so different. You were so clean cut, and now...”
“It’s a façade, I’m not normally like this.”
“Obviously you aren’t military anymore, what are you doing back here?”
Damn good question. Crap. Try to stick with the truth as much as you can. “You would laugh if I told you.”
“I have a good sense of humor.”
“A couple of guys framed a buddy of mine for a crime he didn’t commit. I’m trying to help him clear his name.”
“A detective, eh?”
“Well, let’s say I’m in training.”
Baby steps. Whiskey Joe’s was a genuine, whoop-it-up country bar. Line dancing. They had a damn mechanical bull, for god’s sake. Rex traded the grunge look for the neutral ‘could be country’ look with jeans and a solid flannel shirt that would work about as well in the country bar as it would in the coffee house. And a ball cap. Truthfully, Rex didn’t care for headgear, hated ball caps in particular, and thumbed his nose at those that wore headgear indoors, a practice strictly forbidden in the military unless you were under arms. And he wasn’t under arms. He didn’t even attempt to walk in with the Sig Sauer stashed away. They were searching people at the door. He needed the hat though, for cover. A cowboy hat would have probably been slightly less conspicuous inside this place, but outside of this place, forget it.
At least the beer was cold. Rex hadn’t eaten anything since that massive breakfast, so he ordered a basket of onion rings to nibble on as he watched the scenery from a table fashioned out of a barrel standing on its end. He couldn’t help but notice another man, similarly dressed, also wearing a baseball cap drawn low, occupying the barrel next to him. He looked like he might even be a soldier. A Ranger even. The hair was short enough. He was kind of youngish looking. He had an officer look to him.
These two guys always traveled together, like they were butt buddies or something. There they were, at the door. Mueller and Starr, wearing white cowboy hats, boots, and the gaudiest looking massive buckles you could get to stick on a wide strip of leather, resembling something in between a ship’s bell and a Chinese gong. All that was missing was the holsters and the pistols. And then from nowhere -maybe he was already here- Top Wilson appeared. They said Top was known to hang with these guys. They took three seats at the bar, almost as if they had a standing reservation for those particular seats. People moved for them.
A waitress came around to Rex. “Another beer?”
“Yeah, and I’d like to get one of those brisket sandwiches too.” Rex replied.
It occurred to Rex that he didn’t actually know what he was looking for. He could see them talking. He doubted they would be talking about much that he cared about in public like this. But who knows, get some beer in them. He would just have to hope that something would come to him.
He wasn’t sure at first, but now it seemed apparent that the man sitting alone at the barrel was paying attention to the trio of men as well. He waved the waitress off the last two times. Rex took another position, a table out on the floor, behind Starr, Mueller, and Top Wilson but in a place where he could also observe the man at the barrel, who was starting to catch more and more of his interest.
Young GIs were making introductions and occasionally whispering in Mueller’s ear. Mueller would whisper back. One was from the unit, the rest he didn’t recognize. At some point, maybe forty five minutes later, both Mueller and Starr went outside. The man at the barrel got up, and left behind them. Top Wilson remained at his seat.
One thing was clear. Top Wilson was focused on that man as well, and watched him as he went through the door. Then he shook his head, as if to discount his presence. It looked like a reaction born out of paranoia.
Rex himself made his way through the crowd, and walked outside. He couldn’t see the man sitting on the barrel, but in far corner of the lot, he could see both Starr and Mueller by a car, engaging some young GIs in what appeared to be some sort of transaction; barring gay sex for money, it was very possibly a drug deal.
She looked at the file photo retrieved from the Department of Defense computer database. Thank god it wasn’t some kind of mug shot or booking shot. No, it was a portrait of the young Ranger, proudly standing with the American flag behind him, beret tucked under his elbow, intense eyes staring into the camera, almost as if they stared through the camera and directly in to the viewer’s eyes. She didn’t actually have a picture of Rex; she never thought to take one. She tucked it back into her purse, wondering if she was really doing the right thing.
The downtown DC restaurant on the rooftop of the high rise hotel was a stark contrast to the dingy, dirty, rustic but authentic Mexican restaurants at which she had been eating for the last couple weeks. Or was it three, or four? Something like that. Time flew. The floor was warm, plush carpet. You could probably eat off that carpet if you wanted to, although the soup wouldn’t be recommended. A jazz ensemble played slow bass rifts and subdued piano melody. You could probably take the bass track and piano track separately, shift it out of phase slightly, and have different music for the entire night. That’s probably what they did. The bass player looked like he wanted to be there. The piano player looked like he wanted to be there. But neither looked like they wanted to be there with each other. It sounded like it too.
The Agency never actually forbade dating, but it was made clear that national security was serious business, and you simply don’t talk shop while you’re out with somebody. The best advice, frankly, is to keep your occupation to yourself. You just work for the government as an administrative civil servant. Well, not really, a sworn agent isn’t a ‘civil servant,’ but it’s a close enough descriptor. Maples wasn’t exactly what one would term a secret agent, but most people assume anything associated with the CIA is just that.
When she was growing up, there was a stigma associated with dating services. Usually, the dregs that couldn’t be successful in any other venue turn to dating services. Now they are starting to become more commonplace, and they are even starting to track people using computer databases. They all claim that their members are winners and that they are careful to weed out the dregs. The biggest protection, to either side, is to ensure that membership is pricey enough to keep the players and the lounge lizards out. But even players and lounge lizards can have money.
He looked like the photograph in the folder with the rest of his profile. No, she didn’t bring the blue folder with her. That would be tacky. But it was clear someone doctored it up. Photo editing. They do that kind of thing for actors, particularly aging actors. They said they would do it for her photo but they didn’t need to, she looked like her photo and both looked pretty damned good. There was something just a little bit off on his suit. It wasn’t ill fitting. It wasn’t wrinkled. Something just didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the immaculate suits parading around the exclusive restaurant. Maybe it was the pattern. It was just a little bit on the flashy side. Not gaudy, but vibrant, and not necessarily in a positive way.
“You must be Kirsten?” The man said with a smile.
“Ron?” She replied.
He took a seat. “Been here long?” Ron asked.
“Not long. What’s forty five minutes?”
“Sorry. I ran in to a little traffic. Order some drinks?” Ron turned around and snapped his fingers at a passing waiter.
“Sure. I’ll have a shot of vodka.”
“Whoa! Aggressive. I like it. Waiter, two shots of vodka.”
“Sir, would you like well, or a specific brand?” The waiter asked.
“Well is fine,” Ron replied.
“Stoly for me, please” Kirsten replied.
“Um, yeah, make that two Stolys,” Ron replied. “So... Kirsten, what do you do?”
“For a living, you mean? I’m just an analyst for the government. Boring desk job. Not much to talk about really.”
“What kind of stuff do you analyze?”
“Just, you know, data, and stuff like that. How about yourself?”
“Well,” Ron said in a hushed voice, straightening his tie, and looking to his left and right as if to see if anyone was in earshot. “I uh, work for the government too. But I’m not really, uh, supposed to talk about it.”
“Wow. How exciting. What department do you work for?” Kirsten deliberately phrased the question in a rhetoric tone of voice as she downed the shot of vodka placed on the table in front of her. “Another please?”
“You need to keep it on the hush hush, but let’s just say, it begins with a consonant and ends with two vowels. Yeah.”
“Yeah my father used to work for the FAA. Retired from there. Good benefits.” Kirsten replied.
Ron looked down, and counted on his fingers. “Oh. Well. It begins with a C. and ends with an A.”
“Oh, you don’t say. How amazing. I’ll bet the middle letter is I. It is, isn’t it?”
“Smart girl, you can really figure things out quickly. Remember, mum is the word.”
“You can trust me. I won’t let your secret out. What’s your job like? I’ll bet you chase enemy agents around and bust them. That must be exciting.”
“Well, it’s all in a day’s work. One day you could be in Paris, the next day you could be in Cairo, and the following you could be in Moscow, shadowing the head of the KGB himself.”
“How exciting. You ready to order? I really like the lamb shanks here.”
“Oh, right. Yes, let me take a look at the menu.”
The waiter came back around, this time with a double shot of Stoly. “I thought you might need this,” he whispered to Kirsten, with his hand shielding his mouth. “Sir, can I help you with the menu?”
“Yeah, where are the prices?”
The waiter exchanged a pained glance with Kirsten. “Sir, if...”
“Never mind. You know what, this is a special occasion. Let’s order up.”
“I’ll have the lamb shanks. Medium rare.”
“Excellent choice, madam. And for you sir?”
“I’m looking.”
“Might I suggest the house special le boeuf haché served between deux tranches de pain, accompanied by patates frites?”
“Excellent,” Ron agreed. “I order that myself whenever I’m Paris.”
“Excuse me, I need to use the ladies room,” Kirsten said.
“No problem. I’ll watch your purse.” Ron replied.
“Actually, I kind of need it. Feminine issues, you know. Hint hint.”
“Ooooh, gotcha.” Hmm. Picked a bad night, Ron thought to himself.
She passed by the waiter. “Can you point me to the nearest phone?”
“Over there madam, on the opposite side of the wall from the restrooms.”
“And would you mind terribly much if the kitchen staff boxed up my order to go?”
“It will be waiting for you downstairs with the concierge.”
“Thank you so much.”
She dialed the number on the card. Cupid’s Warriors claimed round the clock customer service. Finally, the phone was answered.
“Cupid’s Warriors. We take the worry out of being your warrior!” The girl giggled.
“Yes, this is Kirsten Maples. You people set me up on a date with Ronald Tiegbaum?”
“Hold on, let me go find the file. Oh here it is, right on top actually. So, how may I help you?”
“What does this guy do for a living?” Um, let’s see... businessman. Pre-owned automotive industry.”
“He’s a used car salesman?”
“Mmm... yes. I’m assuming, negative commentary?”
“To say the least. No woman should be subjected to that man’s bullshit ever again!”
“Sorry about your bad experience ma’am. We will make a note.”
Ron looked at his watch. The waiter approached, and put a covered plate on the table in front of him, and pulled the metal dome off. He stared blankly at his meal.
“Is everything okay sir?”
“Uh... just bring me the bill.”
“Not necessary sir, the lady already settled the bill.”
“Oh. Really. Then, could I get a bag for my hamburger and fries?”
“Right here sir.” The bag was still warm. It was, in fact, the same bag the burger and fries arrived in.
There was a temporary lull in the music, as the PA system sounded. “Paging Ronald Tiegbaum. Agent Ronald Tiegbaum. There is call for you at the front desk from a Mr. Casey.”
Intense laughter roared across the restaurant from the semi-inebriated crowd.
This time, it was a large, color photo book of artistic architectural scenes. They were striking images all taken with large-format cameras. Carol came over to the table and sat down. “Can’t keep away from this place, can you?” she asked.
“Just enjoying the scenery.” Rex replied as he pointed to the picture.
“Yeah, like every time I bend over.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Mm hmm.”
“What do you like to do after work?” Rex asked.
“Okay, cut the bullshit. You want to take me out, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m open. Whatever you would like to do. Preferably a place where we can talk, and I can find out where you’re coming from.”
“Would you be open to a country western bar?”
“I don’t picture you as a country western person, but you are cowboy-ish, in your own way. Sure. I’m game.”
It was a part of life that he never experienced in his teens. Most of his teenage friends did. Arriving at the house. Knocking at the door, knowing that dad would answer and his default preconceived appropriate reaction to your presence is to beat you senseless with a lead pipe, ensuring that you are incapable of producing offspring, or even going through the motions. But it wasn’t a house. It was an apartment. There was no dad; just a girl with reddish brown hair, wearing a fresh pair of designer jeans, a light wool sweater, and a rain jacket.
It was nighttime and a light drizzle had come down continuously since dawn. She opened the passenger door. “A Dodge Reliant? Seriously? That is so Ward Cleaver.”
“Hey now, it’s a rental.”
She shut the door and fastened her belt. “What did you do when you were stationed here?”
“I was a Ranger.”
“Oh god. I mean, I should have figured as much.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“My ex was a Ranger. He was a complete psychopath. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“I’m sorry. Most of us are actually pretty cool, believe it or not.”
“Don’t worry about it. Where are you from, anyway?”
“Sheboygan, Wisconsin.”
Carol laughed. “Grand Rapids, Michigan. That’s where my family is.”
“What brought you out here?”
“I came to California first. Met my first husband. We moved up here. Then he developed some kind of brain condition. Became violent. We split up. It’s been a nightmare.”
“He still around?”
“No. I heard from his family he went to New York and died of a stroke.”
“Sorry.”
Rex wheeled the Reliant in to the parking lot of Whiskey Joes. “Here we are.”
“I’ve been here.” Carol said.
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Rex replied. He stopped short of offering an alternate.
“It’s okay.”
Rex was toying around with the idea of bringing Carol to the country western bar since last night. He couldn’t see any downside to it. It was pretty tame. All he needed to do is track Mueller and Starr’s patterns. And certainly, he could do that just as easily while carrying on a conversation with a lovely girl. She was slightly older than him, but not as old as Kirsten. He guessed her to be in her late twenties to mid-thirties. She had a nice figure to her, and filled out those jeans quite satisfactorily.
They sat the same barrel table where Rex sat the previous night. “This is a dark corner... Let me guess. You brought me here so you could do your detective work.” Carol said.
“Shhh, don’t blow my cover.”
The man that was there the previous night walked in the door, and opted to sit at a small square table close to the barrels. He wore a scarf as well as the pulled down ball cap. Rex felt a chill go down his spine, as if the night was going to take an interesting turn of events.
Top Wilson showed up first. Just like these old time first sergeants, the man walks around like he has a pole up his ass. This time, he had a jeans vest with a confederate flag emblazoned on the back.
Then Mueller and Starr walked in together, and both stopped cold in their tracks, halfway to the bar. They both stared at Carol.
“Oh my god! I don’t believe it! My psycho ex is here!” Carol said in a panicked voice.
Fuck, Rex thought. What were the odds of that happening? The very girl he brings to the bar turns out to be an ex of one of them.
“Well lookie here,” Mueller said in a loud voice. “If it ain’t my ex-bitch, showing up with a puke asshole.”
“That ain’t right,” Starr said.
The man in the scarf and cap took notice of the altercation. And then he remembered seeing the Rex the night before. He lowered his head. At least Mueller, Starr or Top Wilson weren’t looking at him.
“We can go,” Rex said.
“Let me handle this.” Carol said. “I need to talk to him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
It was too late. Carol walked over to Mueller, and they had a brief exchange, in hushed voices. Carol followed Mueller outside.
“God dammit!” Rex said aloud, to nobody in particular. He looked over at Starr, who had vanished. Where did he go? Top Wilson was still there.
After a minute, Rex started getting worried. He got up from the table and walked out the door. Then the man in the cap and scarf followed him out. Then Top Wilson followed the man in the cap and the scarf.
All Rex could see was Mueller and Starr forcing Carol in to the rear seat of a car. “Fuck!” Rex said. He ran towards the car. But it was too late. The doors closed and it started up. He immediately reversed direction and ran towards his parked Reliant. He nearly stripped the starter gears firing the engine up. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Top Wilson getting into a car. This is going to get real ugly, real quick.
He mashed the accelerator, and noticed the man in the cap and scarf running across the lot. He skidded to a stop on the wet lot and opened the window. “Get in!”
The man pulled off his ball cap. He had a Ranger haircut. The man did not recognize Rex. “Get in, now!” Rex ordered.
The man got in and slammed the door. Rex immediately lurched forward, skidded in the turn to get on the road, and desperately tried to catch up with the fleeing Toyota sedan. “Who are you?” The man asked.
“We don’t have time for a meet and greet. I have a feeling you are probably on my side.” Rex replied.
“You have a beef with those assholes too?”
“You could say that.” They tailed the car, then it disappeared around a corner. “Fuck, where did they go?”
“Stop. Turn around. There was a turnoff in the dirt about a hundred feet back. I see lights driving around through the trees.”
Rex turned up the muddy road, and followed it. Then the road branched. “Ah shit. Now where.”
“Shut the engine off and let’s listen.”
Rex pulled off the road, shut the lights off, and they got out and listened in the darkness. “I hear something, to the left!” Rex said. The two men carefully negotiated the road in the darkness on foot. It took an agonizingly long time to reach the sound. It was the sound of crying. And punching. It got louder. Then it got softer. Then the headlights of an approaching car silhouetted Mueller and Starr. Top Wilson was behind them. Clearly visible was Mueller, kicking Carol’s limp body. Both men broke in to a run towards the two, and abruptly stopped, when Starr pulled a gun and leveled it at Rex’s head.
Top Wilson stopped the car but left the lights on, marched past Rex and the other man, and joined Mueller and Starr.
“I’ll be god damned,” Mueller said. “If it ain’t Captain Woods himself. And, and, wait a minute, Dahl? Is that you? That is you! You was supposed to be dead!”
“It was you that shot Lewis, wasn’t it?”
Mueller was silent. Top Wilson went over to Carol, and checked for her vital signs. In the beam of the headlights, you could see her eyes were lifeless. “Boys. She’s gone.”
“Shit,” Starr said. “What do we do?”
“Fuckin’ Captain has a hard on for us. Take his ass out!” Starr shifted the small revolver over to Woods. “Then take Dahl out.”
Rex calculated that if he simultaneously drew the Sig Sauer P226 between his belt and the small of his back and did a combat roll, Starr wouldn’t be able to re-acquire the target with the small snub nose before Rex could unload a couple shots from the Sig, placed accurately.
“What are you reaching for?” Starr asked.
It was like slow motion. Rex lurched to the right, drew the pistol, aimed, and fired one shot before he hit the ground. Starr fired one round towards him and missed. Rex’ round, however, impacted Starr’s forehead, and he fell backwards, dropping the pistol. They teach you to shoot a double tap the head on the first volley. One round contacting the head is instantly disabling. Torso shots can take too long. Shoot to the head if you can. Mueller went for the gun next. Rex didn’t quite have the opportunity to have the same precision of aim as he rolled out and acquired Mueller, and fired five shots into his torso. He slumped over forward before he could get a round off.
“First Sergeant Wilson.” Rex said. “The man that ripped my stripes off before they confined me to the gallows. You knew, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I knew. Goddamn Captain Lewis wouldn’t mind his own business. Rode them boys the same as Woods here. Wouldn’t back off.”
“What the hell is going on?” Woods asked.
“Personal business. Yeah, you were right about those drugs. Well, guess what, they’re dead.”
“It’s over Top.” Woods said.
“Let me go with honor. Take me out.” Wilson asked Rex.
“You don’t deserve it.” Rex walked over to the first sergeant, re-cocked the hammer of his pistol, and placed it on the ground in front of Wilson, who was sitting cross-legged in the mud. Wilson picked up the pistol, placed the barrel in to his open mouth, and pulled the trigger, giving his head a slight snap to the rear, and then he slumped over sideways.
“What about the girl?” Woods said.
Rex knelt down and felt her vitals. She was turning cold. “We can’t do anything for her.” Rex knelt down and spoke to her. “Wish I could have known you.”
Woods was in shock. “What now?”
“Best thing for both of us? Leave. I’ll drop you off at the club. You don’t know shit.”
“Who are you?”
“Your guardian angel. Other than that, don’t ask.”
Woods couldn’t sleep all night. He was a wreck. It was all in the news this morning. He came in to work on a Sunday, barracks empty, save for Private Chang. He heard a knock on his open door.
“Yes?” Woods asked.
“Sir you have a visitor.” an MP reported, as he escorted a civilian in a suit through the door.
“Captain Woods?” The visitor asked.
“What can I do for you?” Woods replied.
“I’m Detective Marston with King County Sheriff’s Department. I’m assuming you are aware by now of what happened to three men in your unit?”
“I heard about it on the morning news.”
“We’re trying to piece things together, so we’re going around canvassing persons involved with these individuals. I guess I’ll get down to the basic question. Let’s start with the facts. There was a girl, beaten to death, preliminary investigation suggests that one of the shooting victims is responsible. We have two shooting victims, shot with a nine millimeter handgun, one of the victims was holding a revolver with shots fired, and a third victim, dead of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. Do you have any idea what may have been the cause of this violence?”
“I don’t know, but I suspect that drugs may have been a factor. I don’t know enough of the details to render a judgment on how.”
“Marijuana was found in the car, as well as cash. What lead you to believe drugs were involved?”
“We’ve had a problem with drug use in our unit and I suspected that one or more individuals in my own company were selling drugs. In fact, I busted a PFC to a private a week and a half ago for drug use.”
“What’s the name of this individual, and where can we find him?”
“Chang. He’s restricted to the barracks. You can find him upstairs on the second floor.”
“Anything else you can add, that you can think of?”
Woods contemplated the question. He figured out who it was that picked him up in the car last night. They said he was dead, but it had to have been Alex Dahl. But he heard Mueller straight out confess to Captain Lewis’ murder. The problem is, go there, and you get dragged in to it. “Nope. Not that I can think of.”
“All right. Thank you for your time.”
Investigators have concluded that a bizarre murder-suicide involving four victims, which occurred last Saturday night in a wooded area south of Seattle, was the result of a combination of a relationship triangle and a dispute over drugs. The names of the victims have not been released yet pending full notification of next of kin, however, officials at the King County Sheriff’s Department confirm that three of the victims, who died of gunshot wounds, were service members stationed at Fort Lewis. A fourth, civilian, female victim died of blunt force trauma as the result of a beating administered by one of the shooting victims.
Rex read the news clip. You have to ask yourself, at what point does it become not worth it? All he could think of was that there was an innocent girl that would still be alive if he had not made the journey. It wasn’t his fault, but it was his fault. But on the other hand, at the same time, there was an Army captain that was alive, that probably wouldn’t be, if Rex had not made the trip. It’s a horrible, terrible choice to make, should he have actually had to make the choice. For that matter, if it was actually up to him, it would have been unfair, but he knew the girl a lot better than he knew the captain.
One thing that did occur to him, and it was both a comfortable feeling, and a horrifying feeling, depending on your perspective, is that it gets easier. Oh, the girl’s death will haunt him for life. Those Cuban soldiers in Grenada? It was hard at first. Mueller and Starr? He’d do it again, right now, no questions asked, except, he would have preferred Mueller to depart in a more painful manner. And he had nothing but disdain for Top Wilson.
He looked in the mirror. The same way after he looked in the mirror that first day of liberty after returning from Grenada. He looked different. Now, he looked even more different. There was a message waiting for him at the safe house. ‘Come in. New assignment.’