Page 51 of Hell and Gone
“Who? Don’t leave me waitin’, son!”
“Jim Burke. Endless Sky’s foreman.”
Silence. Static whispered over the line. Sheriff Braddock exhaled. Everett heard leather creak, metal whine. The sounds of a man sitting heavily in a chair, shock knocking his knees from him. “That’s a hell of an accusation to make of a man who helped build these mountains.”
“He didn’t kill everyone, Sheriff. He left a survivor behind: Connor O’Donnell. And he’s sitting here with me. He told me everything.”
“God damn,” Braddock breathed. “Son, I am damn glad you survived. I wanna know how you got away from that hotel, and how you put this all together ’cause, Everett, you are one hell of an investigator. Buck was right ‘bout you. All right, I’m on my way up right now. You need anythin’?”
“Connor’s hurt bad. He needs medical care.”
“I’ll bring up the kit and let the hospital know. We’ll bring him down together.”
“Prepare an arrest warrant for Jim Burke. He’s a murderer, Sheriff.”
“We’ll do it together, son. You earned that.” The line clicked, and static swallowed the signal after Braddock hung up.
Everett set the phone down. He pressed his forehead to the wall, closing his eyes. Breathed in and held it.
“Y’alright?”
Lawrence, checking on him. Everett nodded. He turned, leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. “I never told you how Lieutenant Holt died.”
“Your lover?”
Everett nodded.
“Said he was shot.” Lawrence shoved his hands in his pockets. “In the back. Guess all this is hard on you, then?”
The memories came, sliding over the present, the sounds of the village, the Humvee engines idling. Lieutenant Holt’s voice, singing songs with the village kids and kicking a soccer ball with them.
Everett had been on guard duty, but he kept getting distracted. His gaze was drawn to Holt, and he kept watching, smiling. They were there to visit the tribal elders, check on the new school they’d helped build a few months back. Deliver supplies for the students.
An Afghan National Police unit patrolled with them, and had patrolled with them for months. Their unit was helping train the Afghans, teaching the police and the military how to be a modern country with equal laws that treated everyone fairly. This was progress, he’d thought. This is justice. Kids in Afghanistan going to school. Villages prospering. There was life here, and a future.
But not everyone wanted that future.
Holt was kicking the soccer ball and then he wasn’t. The echoes were still bouncing off the mountains, theratta-tat-tatof the rifle. The shooter had almost emptied his rifle into Holt’s back.
The children screamed. Ran in every direction. Their platoon took cover, took firing positions. They searched for the enemy, scanned the hills, called out clear signals as they tried to find the Taliban, the insurgents, whoever was shooting at them.
And the captain of the Afghan Police unit, who had walked at Holt’s side formonths, stared them down, holding the smoking gun.
The captain ran. Some of his men covered for him, shooting in a blind panic. Others dropped their rifles and hid, choosing neither side, just running for their lives. In one hour, the village turned into a shooting gallery, houses pockmarked with bullet holes, four civilians dead, children screaming in terror. The school was shot to pieces, and, as a finalfuck you, some of the captain’s men blew themselves up in the school.
Everett was the first to go to Holt’s cold body, pull him from the dust. He was undeniably dead, had been dead before he’d hit the ground.
Everett held his lover while the taste of dust and blood and ash settled around him. And, deeper than that, the taste of betrayal filled his soul.
He’d walked out of the firebase that night and started hunting. He was AWOL, gone for weeks, but no one stopped him. He missed Holt’s body being flown back to the States. Missed the memorial ceremony the base commander held, the boots, rifle, and dog tags, and the fine words said about Holt’s memory.
His own memorial had been hunting that captain down. Taking his time when he found him.
His death had been slower than Holt’s. And in the end, Everett’s hands had been bloodred and soaked.
When he walked back to base, he said he was quitting the Army. He was a problem no one wanted to deal with, and they quietly shuffled him out the door, pushed him through the months of paperwork to be cashiered out. For a year, he was listless, lifeless, living on back pay in hotel rooms and staring at the ceiling, trying to stop the replay of memories in his mind. That day, that fucking day, was a repeat he lived through endlessly.
Finally, he’d applied to as many law enforcement positions as he could, from federal to state to local, and even to the Montana Department of Agriculture for their Stock Detective opening.
