Deployed (9 page)

Daud kept walking, but his mind was already restlessly turning over his next steps. They needed more men. They needed more weapons. And to get those things, he would have to steal more. He looked forward to it; the task gave him purpose.

9

BEKAH’S HEAD BUZZED
with questions and possibilities as she walked into the AutoZone store in Murchison with the old carburetor she’d pulled out of her pickup. The letter from the Marine Corps had been short and succinct as always, letting her know where to be and when, and that a ticket would be waiting for her at Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City.

She dreaded the thought of going back to Afghanistan. Being a woman there, especially a female Marine, was hard. There were a lot of rules for engagement that women military personnel had to obey even when working among friendlies.

Wearing his Texas Rangers ball cap, Travis walked beside her. It was a little big on him, but he was proud of it because his great-grandpa had given it to him. Bekah didn’t think Travis could remember that since he’d been so young, but she and her granny had told him a lot about his great-grandpa.

She placed the carburetor on the counter, then gave Travis
a quarter to buy gum from one of the small vending machines at the front of the shop. While she waited, she stared at the television behind the counter. The Fox News broadcast showed footage of Mogadishu and some of the fighting that had broken out in the northern sections of the city.

“Pretty intense, huh?” The young man on the other side of the counter looked all of eighteen or nineteen. Small and compact, with his hair high and tight, he looked like he’d stepped off a high school football field somewhere. His grin was open and friendly, and his blue eyes flashed.

“Yeah.”

“I just found out I’m going over there.”

“Mogadishu?”

The counter man nodded. “I’m a Marine reservist. We got activated this week. Supposed to be in California by the end of next week.”

Bekah smiled back. “Always good to meet a fellow Marine.” She extended her hand.

“You?” The guy looked surprised but took her hand.

“Lance Corporal Bekah Shaw currently tasked to Charlie Company. I’m headed to California too.”

“Lance corporal. I’m a private. Am I supposed to salute?”

“The officers, yes, but I’m noncom.”

“First time I’ve been activated.” He hesitated. “I’ve got to admit, I’m a little nervous.”

“When you get over there, stick with the guys who have the experience. Do what they do. Don’t take chances. Watch over your buddies and trust them to watch over you. Just like you’ve been training.”

The guy nodded. “My name’s Ralph. Ralph Caxton.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ralph Caxton.”

“Likewise.”

“How do you know you’re shipping out to Mogadishu?”

“Got an older brother in the Marines who works in intel. He went to officer’s school. Says I should be doing the same thing, but I want to get my boots muddy first before I commit to something like that.”

“It’s a good way to go.”

“You didn’t.”

Bekah smiled and shrugged. “I don’t have the necessary college. Can’t get it right now. But it’s definitely something you should think about if you decide you like the Corps.”

“I will. Maybe we’ll see each other.”

Bekah nodded, amazed how at home she felt in the presence of another Marine she’d never even met before. She felt more connected to Ralph Caxton than she did to any of her friends back in Callum’s Creek. “Could be. You get overseas, the world gets pretty small. You tend to notice each other.”

Ralph turned his attention to the carburetor. “I suppose you’ll be needing one of these.”

Bekah nodded and glanced at Travis. He was standing in the plate-glass windows watching with rapt attention as traffic whizzed by. She marveled again at how small his world was—and how small hers had at one time been.

Ralph left the counter and came back a few minutes later with the necessary part. He arranged for a military discount after checking her ID, then rang her up. As he did, Bekah kept watching the television station. The words
hostage
,
piracy
,
looting
,
famine
,
drought
, and
deaths
kept scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

Almost immediately, other footage rolled that described the struggling supply lines trying to get food, medicine, and water to the people displaced by the constant warring. That was followed by images of sick children wasted away to nothing, looking like stick puppets with bulbous heads and lifeless eyes. It was almost more than Bekah could bear. Even though she knew Travis would never face such circumstances, she couldn’t help knowing how she would feel if she were the momma of one of those children.

“Looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?” Ralph’s voice was quiet.

“It does.” Bekah wrote out a check for the carburetor.

“But it’s okay. We’ll be over there soon. We can do something about that.” Ralph gave her a winning smile and handed her the box. “When you want something done right, you send in the Marines. Semper Fi.”

“Semper Fi, Marine.” Bekah tucked the box under her arm and called Travis over to her. They headed out of the building and back to her granny’s truck and were on the road before eight thirty.

“Thought maybe you could use a glass of lemonade.”

Sitting on her truck’s fender, Bekah glanced up and saw her granny standing nearby with a tall glass in one hand. She also held a small saucer of fresh-baked peanut butter cookies.

“I can. Thanks.” Bekah wiped her hands on the cloth she held, then spun around and stepped to the ground. Her back
and shoulders hurt from working in the slumped position she’d had to endure. She took the glass and drank half the contents.

Her granny set the saucer on the fender. “Not too fast. You’ve been working hard, and it’s hot out here. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

“I won’t.” Bekah took a cookie and bit into it. The smell instantly brought back all those memories of baking with her granny when she was a small girl. These days there was precious little time for that. They both worked harder than they’d ever worked just to get by. “Your timing is about perfect, by the way.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve got everything back together. I’m ready to see if the truck will fire up.”

Granny’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That was fast.”

“Grandpa and me built this truck. I know my way around it.”

Granny smiled. “I suppose you do.”

Bekah finished the cookie, took another sip of the lemonade, and climbed behind the truck’s steering wheel. She pumped the accelerator, took a breath, and cranked the ignition as she watched the engine through the space between the open hood and the truck body.

The engine turned over a few times, and just when Bekah was beginning to think maybe she’d gotten something wrong, the V6 caught and the
chug-chug
became a throaty roar. Bekah smiled and felt the expression pulling across her face.

Granny looked at her, nodding and smiling.

In the yard between the ranch house and the barn, Travis
whooped in delight and came running over. “You fixed it! You fixed it, Momma!”

Proud of herself, feeling a little more in control of her life, Bekah stepped out of the truck and caught her son in mid-rush. She lifted him up high and beamed at him. “I did, baby boy. So what do you think about your momma now?”

Travis hugged her. “You’re a good mechanic, Momma.”

It wasn’t what most mommas heard from their kids, but Bekah was willing to take it. As she hugged her son back, she hated the thought that she was going to be taken away from him again so soon.

Standing at the kitchen sink, Bekah washed the vegetables she was going to put into the stew for supper. She did the chore mechanically after years of practice. Her attention was on Travis. Bekah could see him out the window as he threw a stick for Shep, his border collie puppy. Travis was convinced Shep could learn to fetch. The only thing Shep truly wanted to do was follow Travis around.

Travis threw the stick, and Shep sat and watched. Exasperated, Travis turned and talked to the pup, explaining how the trick was supposed to work. Finally, Travis got down on hands and knees and crawled over to the stick, which he hadn’t thrown very far. Shep laid his head down on his paws and closed his eyes.

Bekah laughed out loud.

“What’s going on?” Granny stood up from the oven where
she was baking a fresh pan of cornbread. The smell filled the kitchen and made Bekah’s stomach growl.

“Travis is trying to teach Shep to fetch.”

Granny smiled, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and joined Bekah at the sink. “That should be entertaining.”

Out in the yard, Travis knelt and talked to Shep. Then he pointed at the stick. He talked some more and pointed to the stick again. Shep just stared at him and occasionally wagged his thin little tail.

“Not making much headway with that pup, is he?”

Bekah shook her head. “Gonna be interesting to see which one of them gives up first.”

“Have you told Travis when you’re going back to the Marines?”

Bekah drained the water from the pan she’d used for scrubbing the carrots, potatoes, onions, and celery. Lifting the vegetables from the pan, she placed them on the chopping block and raised the Japanese-style knife she’d picked up at Walmart after she got back from her last tour. She wasn’t Rachael Ray or Guy Fieri, but the Marines had taught her to have the proper tool for the job. She loved the knife and the way it sounded so authoritative when it hit the block. “Not yet.”

“Gonna have to be done. He don’t need to be surprised.”

“I know. I just want to let him have another day or two without thinking about it.”

Granny rested her thin hand on Bekah’s shoulder. “I know, darling girl, but he has to deal with it. We all do.”

Lowering her head, Bekah tried to focus on her task. But
it was hard. “I keep telling myself that this is for the best. After losing the job at Hollister’s, I need the money.”

“You don’t need the money. I’ve told you more than once that you and Travis are welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

“Granny, please. I can’t talk about this right now.” The argument was an old one, and Bekah couldn’t bear to rehash it again.

10

THE WIND STIRRED
the August heat that surrounded Oklahoma State Penitentiary but only succeeded in making the air feel like it poured from a convection oven. Heath Bridger sweltered in his suit as he trudged up the white stone steps leading to the main building. His sunglasses blunted the sunlight, but he felt it beating down on him with physical force. He remained steadfast, though, and carried himself with dignity, attracting the ire of a few of the prison guards as he drew closer to the main building. The antagonism that radiated from them was thicker than the early-afternoon heat.

The prison guards knew who Heath was there to see, and their disapproval showed in scowls and muttered curses. Heath ignored the behavior the same way he had for the last five months. Some days he wanted to tell the guards and administration that what they dished out to him on these
weekly visits paled in comparison to what his father handed out almost daily.

But he didn’t. He kept his family trials and tribulations close, the way he had all his life.

Once inside the building, he handed over his briefcase and submitted to the electronic and physical search that had become routine. He’d gotten so inured to the process that he went through the motions automatically—not taking anything personal, just accepting the events.

On the other side of the first security door, Heath pulled his clothing back into order, ran a hand through his short-cropped dark-blond hair, and took his briefcase back from one security officer while another affixed a visitor’s badge to his pocket.

“Stay in the designated areas, Counselor.” The guard who had clipped on the badge stepped back. He was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, probably about Heath’s age.

“Sure.” Heath tightened his grip on the briefcase’s handle. He didn’t bother pointing out that he’d heard the warning dozens of times.

“I’ll walk you to the room.”

Heath nodded and fell into step with the man. The guard was six feet tall—four inches shorter than Heath—but was wider across the shoulders and chest. Looked like he worked at it, maybe with the help of some steroids and muscle-mass hormones. His sleeves were rolled up to midbicep, and the material strained as he moved with an easy grace.

Lean and athletic, Heath paced the guard easily. Exercise, sports, and competition had helped him work out his
frustrations and his father’s disapproval. Endorphins were his drug of choice, and he kept in shape for the Marines.

“I heard you used to play football.” The guard stopped in front of the next security door.

“I did.” Heath stood quietly beside the man. He didn’t want to talk to the guard, but he knew any reticence on his part would only add to the tension.

“Somebody told me you were a quarterback.”

“I was.”

The guard at the security door punched in the code, and the massive door slid back with a clang.

“Said you played at OSU.”

Heath nodded and thought about the years he’d spent at Oklahoma State University. When he was on the team, he’d felt like he was part of something that mattered. His father hadn’t respected football, though, and he’d never come to a single game. So Heath played even harder, getting enough ink in the papers that he knew his father had to avoid the topic when he was with his friends.

Lionel Bridger represented a few professional football players who got themselves into trouble, but he didn’t care for the sport. For Lionel, it was all about the money. Professional athletes could pay a lot, and they generally got into the kind of trouble that warranted a crafty lawyer. Lionel Bridger was that in spades.

“I’ve always been an OU fan.” The guard got under way again.

“The University of Oklahoma is a good school.” Heath hated walking down the prison’s gray corridors. Every time he
did, it felt like the world was growing steadily smaller around him and would one day crush him beneath its weight. There wasn’t a single time he left the building that he didn’t feel like he’d just made an escape.

“If you were such a hotshot quarterback, why didn’t you play at OU?”

“Couldn’t make the cut.” Heath decided to give the guard that, even though it wasn’t true. He’d followed a girl to OSU, thought he’d been in love. Actually, he
had
loved her, but she hadn’t loved him. Not enough. When he caught her cheating on him, all that was left for him was the team.

And when the collegiate football career was over, Heath went to law school because he hadn’t known what else to do with himself. Lionel had insisted, and the confusion of his girlfriend’s betrayal had left him anchorless. Stuck with a father who only saw him as a continuation of the bloodline.

Strangely enough, Heath had an aptitude for law and a good, quick mind. More than that, he loved winning. The competition in the courtroom didn’t replace the action on the gridiron, but it awakened new areas in Heath’s life. He’d found a new battlefield that gave him new rewards.

“OU’s a tough program.”

“Yeah.”

“Somebody said they thought you were good enough to go pro.”

Heath shook his head. “Not me.” There had been offers, though. Never first-round choice, but he’d received some interest. After college, Heath just couldn’t wrap his head
around football anymore. He moved on, and he didn’t have it in him to try to build that kind of relationship with anyone else. He’d wanted—
needed
—to be alone. Except for his service in the Marines. He enjoyed that camaraderie, but it had been limited—until lately.

After law school, he’d gone back to what he knew and began work at his father’s firm. They had offices in Dallas and Houston, in Tulsa and Oklahoma City. His father kept a lot of work on the dockets. Lionel Bridger was a rainmaker in two states, and he handled civil as well as criminal cases as long as the client had the long green.

The guard stopped at the doorway to the interview room and gestured to the table and chairs inside. “You got privacy in there, Counselor.”

“Thanks.”

The guard crossed his arms and looked at Heath with a measuring glance. “I also heard you were a soldier.”

Heath almost said,
“I’m a Marine,”
but he held himself in check. That would be Marine pride speaking, and the guard wouldn’t understand it as anything other than self-aggrandizement. “Yeah.”

“Weekend warrior.” The guard’s tone almost masked the sarcasm.

“That’s right.”

“But you’ve been in Afghanistan, other places like that.”

Heath stood in the doorway. Darnell Lester hadn’t been brought in yet, so he had time to kill. He didn’t want to kill the time with the guard, but the man wasn’t going to go away until he’d asked the question he was dying to ask. “I have.”

“So you’ve seen some bad things.”

The anger in Heath stirred like a snake, lifting and preparing to strike suddenly. “There’s a war on over there. Maybe you’ve heard about it.”

The guard smiled a little at that, and Heath knew the man was happy to have struck a nerve. “I have. Just seems to me you’ve seen brother soldiers go down.”

Heath remained silent with effort. He made himself breathe out and relax.

The guard only waited a short time for a reply that just didn’t happen. Then he forged on, obviously determined to say whatever he’d come to say. “After being there through something like that, it makes me wonder why you would defend a cop killer like Darnell Lester. I’d think maybe you’d sympathize with what we’re trying to do here instead of taking it on yourself to interrupt the wheels of justice.”

Heath flicked his gaze to the guard’s ID tag. He hadn’t taken note of the man’s name earlier, on purpose. Giving the opposition names allowed them more power to get under his skin. “Do you have a personal interest in this, Mr. Cookson? If so, I’ll need to see about having you relieved of duty here. Conflict of interest.” He didn’t know if he could do that, but the guard wilted under the threat.

“No. No personal interest.” Duane Cookson tried to play off his intimidation, but he was young and probably hadn’t been in the streets as a police officer.

Guys who had actually been out patrolling the streets gave off a different vibe than the one the guard had. Heath had learned to feel that vibe through experience in the
courtroom. Those men hit his personal radar in the same fashion Marines did. They had a sense of purpose, a calling. At least the ones who had seen violence up close and believed in what they were doing.

“Because if you do, I need to know.” Heath leaned in, towering over the shorter man.

Cookson bristled and gritted his teeth. “Darnell Lester is a cop killer. He confessed to the shooting. He’s scheduled to die, and he probably wants to after fourteen years of being in this place.” His nostrils flared. “I’m thinking maybe you should just let him.”

Keeping his voice cold, his words like chipped ice, Heath met the man’s gaze full measure. “Are we done here? Or do I need to speak with your supervisor?”

Cookson held his position for a moment, and Heath knew the man had a lot of pride on the line. Maybe the other guards had put Cookson up to the confrontation, or maybe the man had taken it upon himself, but he wasn’t going to let it go easily.

Then he subsided. “Sure. We’re done. Just lemme know when you’re ready to leave.” He turned and walked away.

Breathing hard, Heath went to the table in the center of the room and sat down to wait. He focused on what he needed to say, and he tried to find the best way to say it.

The other door leading to the interview room abruptly clanged open a few minutes later while Heath was still considering his options. Darnell Lester shuffled into the room
wearing the orange prison uniform and shackles on his ankles and wrists. He glanced at Heath and nodded slightly. Another guard, this one older and heavier, followed the prisoner into the room.

Heath stood and looked at the guard. “Take the cuffs off my client, please.”

The guard scowled but did as Heath ordered. During the process, Darnell never acknowledged the guard. He kept his eyes on Heath. When the guard had the shackles off, he glanced at Heath. “You need me, I’ll just be outside.”

Heath nodded. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

The guard walked away and closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Darnell.” Heath waved to one of the chairs at the table. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine. I’m holding up fine. Thank you.” Darnell eased himself into the chair across the table. He was fifty-four years old—not an old man, but fourteen years of prison had weighted him down. He was thin and knobby, a man who looked put together with ball bearings and piano wire. His head looked too big for his body, but his face had at one time been handsome.

That had been years ago, before the violent arrest that put him in intensive care and cost him the use of his right eye. Now age and physical abuse had weathered his features. The cottony fringe of hair that encircled his bald pate stood out against his ebony skin. Scars showed on the knuckles of his big hands, and burn scarring from the First Iraq War left his skin spotted and pink from the tips of his fingers to his midforearms. Faded gang tattoos, rendered in blue ink, barely stood out against his arms, but they remained indelible.

“I see you still ain’t winnin’ no friends here.” Darnell grinned and showed his tobacco-stained teeth. A few on the sides were missing, and his pink gums showed.

“I didn’t know we were in a popularity contest.” Heath took off his jacket and hung it from the back of his chair.

Darnell laughed, and the sound was soft and delicate. His voice sounded melodic when he spoke, and there was a cadence to it that Heath always took note of. “I suppose not.” He paused a moment. “So what are you doing here, Counselor?”

“I came to catch you up on where we stand.” Heath took a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and placed it on the table. He added a tape recorder, then took a pen from the briefcase as well. “I filed a motion to get a new judge to look over your files.”

Darnell clasped his hands in front of him and shook his head. “Why would you go an’ do a thing like that?”

“Because I don’t think Judge Winters is willing to look at an appeal.”

“Ain’t no reason he should. Nothin’s changed. That man’s still dead, an’ I’m the one that done it.”

“I know.” Heath had seen the video footage himself. Darnell Lester’s case had reached a swift end. The convenience-store footage showed Darnell robbing the store clerk, then shooting Keith Jointer, an off-duty Oklahoma City police officer who had stopped by for gas at the time of the robbery.

Jointer had pulled his weapon and started ordering Darnell to put his gun down. He hadn’t identified himself, and Heath didn’t fault the young officer for that. Adrenaline
sharpened the senses and reflexes during conflict, but it also sometimes dulled the thinking. Experience with similar situations would change things, but that day had been the first time Officer Jointer had drawn his weapon during the commission of a crime. Jointer had fired first, missing Darnell by three feet.

Darnell, heavily under the influence of the drugs that had consumed his life back in those days, had turned and fired automatically. His bullet had caught the young officer dead center in the chest. When he saw what he’d done, Darnell had immediately tried to give first aid. He was still administering CPR when the patrol cars arrived.