CHAPTER 23
Snow in Her Shoes
December 2075
The problem with Army boys? They preferred Army bars. Which in Boston translated not just to dive bar, but Irish dive bar. And the problem with Irish dive bars? Well, women rarely frequented them. Especially women like Grey. Add "Army" to the mix, and Grey knew she'd fit in about as well as a kitten in a kennel.
Except Walsh wasn't at his regular Army pub. Or any Army pub for that matter. Something Grey bitterly swallowed after too many wasted nights and too many Privates with more teeth than braincells groping her ass.
Walsh hadn't been formally accused yet. He hadn't even been arrested. JAG Corps were still investigating and they kept a pretty tight lid on any and all pretrial operations. But no matter how dogmatic JAG Corps were, there was always scuttlebutt. Somehow, somewhere, Walsh's name was being toted as a suspect in the James assault. And Walsh knew this. He also knew that to avoid the court of public opinion, he needed to avoid the public. Or, in his case, avoid his fellow soldiers and avoid their haunts.
The whole misadventure had begun a week earlier when Grey'd discovered that she'd been right in one of her initial suspicions: Walsh's house was indeed under surveillance. These weren't trained CID officers watching his residence though. They were grunts, nobody Privates who'd likely incurred some number of infractions and were saved any further penalty by doing Cantrell's dirty work. Grey didn't judge. She had her own little pool of miscreants, but she preferred to use hers for information gathering. To use them for anything else risked too much.
Grey had settled in for a day of surveilling Walsh's surveyors. It took less than 90 minutes before the two Privates decided to take a lunch break. Together. Leaving the house unattended like the absolute amateurs they were.
Not wasting any time, Grey'd knocked on the front door, Vault-Tec clipboard in hand and strawberry-blonde wig framing her fake-tanned face. Except it wasn't Walsh who had answered the door. What was at the door was something Grey hadn't quite expected. But at least it provided a clue, albeit a vague one.
Following that scrap of evidence, Grey'd had Anders recall every Boston piss-pit he and his men ever drank at, but they were all dead ends.
By week's end, Grey'd caved and called her contact at Weatherby Savings and Loans. It wasn't a favour she'd willingly called in. It had taken her years to secure that favour, but after a two minute conversation, it was gone. At least she finally knew where to go.
That evening she lounged at a table in the far corner of the Cabaret Club, an upscale speakeasy in Beacon Hill. A handsome woman and plucky boy enticed the crowd with seductive songs. The woman's voice was like honey, slow and golden and beautifully sweet. She entranced both men and women, the venue swelling with patrons, even on a Tuesday night.
Grey waited for Walsh to down his fourth Scotch before she made her approach. She sauntered to the bar, giving the faintest air of tipsiness. She let her hand casually brush Walsh's back as she sat, giving a false apology and smiling through heavily shadowed eyes. She beckoned the bartender, giving her fake platinum locks a flick. Just enough to grab Walsh's attention. He had a thing for blondes, or so she was led to believe. He also had a thing for the girl next door, but Grey wasn't that good of an actor. Walsh was a straight man after all; it was often a safer bet to gamble appearance over personality.
Walsh was prettier in person. His photographs hadn't done him justice, washing him out and painting him a boy in Army greens. He had a callow but handsome face, brownish-blond hair sleekly styled back. His hazel eyes were tinged red from either drink or smoke. He watched the performers but not with the same hunger as the other patrons. He wasn't there to be entertained after all. He was there to be distracted.
"Let me guess," she purred. "Accounting? No, not quite. Hmm."
Walsh's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"
"Shh, I'm deducing your profession. Just give me a minute. I'm thinking business, but not exactly business. Marketing? Hmm, yes. Creative, but not creative staff. So I'm going to say… strategic planning division." She smiled. "How did I do?"
"Not even close."
She laughed. "Damn. And here I thought I had a gift. So, Mr Mystery Job, what brings you to our little speakeasy? And don't say the music."
He playfully frowned. "Why not?"
"Because there's a difference between the music and the ones who make it. And me?" she said, casting a lusty look at the performers. "I just prefer a little honesty."
"So why are you here then?"
She leaned in, lightly caressing his calf with her stiletto. "Definitely not for the music."
He watched her carefully, that uneasy mix of caution and excitement.
She grinned in response. "You still haven't told me what brought you here."
"No," he said, closing the distance. "I haven't."
"I guess small talk isn't your thing then."
"And is it yours?" His fingertips grazed her jaw.
"Lets say I can think of a better way to get to know one another."
Teeth nipped at her neck and fingers crept up her thighs as they fumbled with the rear service door. They pressed their weight against it, his hands cupping her ass and hers snaking through his hair. Their mouths hungrily met as the door swung open and the December air snapped against their skin. Grey's feet barely touched snow before Walsh trust her up against the old brick exterior, a single floodlight casting shadows between stacked pallets and a dumpster.
That's when she felt the 9mm pressed beneath her ribs.
Before she could think, Walsh slammed his forearm across her throat. Her skull cracked against the wall, blackness tugging at the edges of her vision. Her arms went limp, feet sinking into fresh snow. The pressure of his forearm kept her upright, but just barely.
"Who do you work for?" he barked.
Grey clenched her jaw.
"Don't make me ask again."
He rammed the gun into her solar plexus. Acid shot up her esophagus, pooling in her mouth. She writhed against the wall. His grip tightened.
"I said who do you work for."
"Fuck you."
The 9mm whipped her face. Her periphery blackened. She gasped for breath.
"Last chance."
The gun cocked.
A voice yelled.
Grey tumbled to her knees, fists balling in the snow. Red droplets fell to the ground, stark against the white. The world spun. Acid trickled back down her throat. Fingers dug into her shoulder, pulling her upward. Her head rolled back. That's when she saw the second gun. This one pointed at Walsh.
Anders' face hardened. "Let her go, Specialist."
She heard Walsh's breath hitch. Felt the pause in his body as he held her. Hot blood ran down her face, sticky strands of platinum hair matting against her neck. Walsh's fingers dug deeper. And then something else touched her head. Cold and small and—
Grey froze.
"You need to let her go."
"You… Sarge?"
"Yes. Now do the right thing, soldier, and let her go."
"Sarge, what are you…" Walsh's voice trailed off, something more vulnerable than confusion seeping in.
"You asked who she works for. She works for me, Walsh. Me."
The 9mm bobbed against Grey's skull. She dared not breathe.
"You're going to let her go on the count of three. One, two—"
Anders grabbed her arm, pulling her up from her knees and away from Walsh's grasp. She collapsed against him, her blood staining his lapel.
Walsh stood stiffly before them, red eyes hollow and lips pulled thin. He tentatively reengaged the safety, lowering the pistol to his side. Anders followed suit.
"What are you doing here, Sarge?"
"Looking for you, goddammit. What do you think?"
"I don't have a fucking clue what to think! I don't see or hear from you for months, and suddenly you're standing in a back alleyway after sending some prima-donna whore in to, what, fuck me into a false sense of security?"
Grey would have been insulted if she didn't feel like she was about to faint.
She said, "We just wanted to talk, but you've made that pretty damn impossible."
"I didn't have a choice."
"Because your home is under surveillance? Or because you're suspected of attempted murder?"
Walsh shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."
"Then help me understand," Anders stressed.
"It's none of your concern, Sarge, so drop it." Walsh holstered his gun, turning to leave.
Anders lowered his voice. "I know about Lydia."
That stilled him, his shoulders tensing.
Anders said, "Whatever this is, she wouldn't want it for you. And she wouldn't want you alone while facing it. So let us help you."
Walsh scoffed. "Help me with what exactly?"
"Help you clear your name, for starters."
Again he shook his head. "You really have no idea what's going on, do you, Sarge?"
"Then tell me." That was the first time Grey could really hear Anders' desperation. That need to fix it—whatever it was.
But that desperation wasn't enough. Walsh turned his back to them, heading back into the club.
"I spoke to Sarah."
Walsh froze. Didn't turn. Didn't speak. Just stood there.
Grey thought about continuing but there was nothing else to say. That day, after his girlfriend, Sarah, opened Walsh's front door, Grey could tell from the hollow look on her face that something had happened. Something bad. And Walsh had run away and left her to deal with it. Hurt had burned in her eyes when she'd told Grey that she'd find Walsh at the bottom of a bottle, pissing his life away. Grey'd gotten little more before the door had been slammed in her face.
Walsh's stance shifted ever so slightly.
"I'm… sorry. I thought you were—" He stopped himself. "I'm sorry. But you need to stay away. Both of you. Because there's nothing you can do."
"Walsh, please—" But he was gone before Anders could finish, the service door slamming behind him.
So much for our masterplan, Grey bitterly thought as she tried to stand on her own two feet. She barely took a step before her knees buckled. Anders caught her. Her head swung back against him, wig beginning to slip from her scalp. Darkness crept in as she felt weightlessness beneath her. She tried to fight it, the moments of warmth and flashes of light and the feeling of something hot and humid against her skin.
It had been a long time since her last concussion. She'd been thirteen years old and her parents had sent her and Jasper to England for the summer whilst they gallivanted across southern France and Italy. She and Jasper had been left with friends of friends who owned a country house and stable in Kent. They'd attempted to fill their days of boredom with silly dares and increasingly reckless challenges, often using the horses. One gelding finally had enough of their shit and threw Grey from its back, her head striking a fence pole. She'd woken several days later to two angry parents and a bemused private physician with the bushiest eyebrows she'd ever seen.
The man now standing above her reminded her of that physician. Not the eyebrows—those were thin and trimmed—but the bemused look.
"How's the head?"
"Angry."
"And your vision?"
"Blurry."
"And your—"
Grey narrowed her gaze. "I know you."
"Do you now?" Again that bemused look.
Before Grey could utter another word, Anders rushed in, his expression hovering somewhere between her parent's anger and Jasper's guilt.
"You're awake," he said breathlessly.
"Obviously."
The man stifled a laugh. Anders frowned.
Grey pushed herself upright. She was lying on a burgundy couch, wood stove crackling in the corner. A thin artificial Christmas tree stood in front of the banister, gift-wrapped boxes littering the base. Someone's home then.
She felt something pull at the skin near her eyes. Her fingertips found butterfly bandages over her temple. That and a lot of swelling. Wonderful.
The man closed a battered brown medical bag, US Army insignia nearly faded beyond recognition. "I've already administered a Stimpak; swelling should subside in an hour. And no, there won't be any scarring."
He went to stand then, grabbing the cane resting beside his chair. His jeans hung unevenly, one pant leg pinned above his missing calf. He gave her a smile, facial scars crinkling by his eyes. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."
Silence swelled around them as the man exited. Anders leaned against the far wall, head turned away as if disgusted by the mere sight of her. She'd seen that immature tactic before and had no time for it.
"Is this your place or his?"
He didn't answer.
Grey sighed. "Okay then. We can play it that way if you w—"
"What's wrong with you?"
Grey shut her mouth, not entirely sure how to answer that. Felt like a trap either way. Or an insult.
"Do you have any idea how much danger you put yourself in? If I wasn't there—"
"But you were there," Grey stressed. "You were there and—"
"He would have killed you!" Anders slammed his fist into the mantle, bone breaking and blood spurting. Anger and worry twisted across his face, deforming it. "He would have fucking killed you and I—" He choked, burying his face in his broken hand.
Grey grimaced. She knew his rage wasn't directed at her, not really. That's what she told herself as she watched the blood slither down his wrist. It was the same as her parent's anger that summer of 2063. It wasn't even anger; it was fear. Fear that something horrible could have happened. Fear that, somehow, they were to blame.
"It's not your fault."
Fiery eyes latched onto her. "Your insubordination is—"
"Stop. For five minutes, just stop. Christ." Grey shook her head, instantly regretting it.
"Look," she said, "I'm only going to say this once, so listen up: Walsh isn't your responsibility anymore. You aren't his commanding officer, and you sure as hell aren't mine. So you can rage and brood and pummel yourself raw, but you have no control over that man's actions. Not anymore. So stop acting like a goddamn martyr."
His rage simmered as he stared, but enough of his self-control kicked in that he was able to unfurl his broken hand. She could see his jaw clenching, teeth pressing—emotions being smothered as reason took hold.
"I've never seen that side to him before, Grey. Never."
"Not to be a wellspring of clichés, but people change."
Anders shook his head. "Not like that, not—How do I explain… Right before our tour ended, before the unit was disbanded, we'd received intel the Chinese had captured a fishing town on the southwestern Alaskan coast, outside of Bethel. On the tin of it, it didn't look like much, but it turned out there had been a covert research base there and not all the scientists had been extracted in time. The town had been under Chinese occupation for months before we arrived.
"To cut a long story short, while releasing some of the captives, one of the scientists pulled a gun on Walsh. Stockholm syndrome I was told after the fact. But anyway, she has this glock trained on him but Walsh, he doesn't react. Protocol is to disarm by whatever means necessary, which often means bullet to the head or heart. And James, he can see Walsh is doing no such thing, so he moves into position to shoot, but then Walsh moves ever so slightly, blocking James's shot while now speaking calmly to the woman. Asking her where she's from, telling her it's okay, asking her about her family. This went on for what seemed forever, but eventually she collapses into Walsh's arms, sobbing, telling him she just wants to go home to Vermont to see her dad again.
"And that's what I can't reconcile. That Walsh. That man I served with. The man who'd rather die than allow himself or someone he knew to harm a civilian, no matter what threat was posed. So when he assaulted you, had his gun trained on you, I…" He clenched his fist, pain tearing across his face.
"I'll go get the doctor," Grey said, rising to her feet. She exited the room before he could protest. Exited too fast she realized as the hallway began to spin. She caught herself against the wall, shoulder knocking a photo frame. She stopped to straighten it, recognition sparking as her fingertips grazed Anders' black-and-white face. Anchorage, Alaska. February 17, 2074. And eight smiling faces. Walsh, James, Anders, and the man with the bemused eyes.
"Did I hear Anders trying to demolish my damn mantel with his fists again? I swear that boy…"
Grey turned as the doctor approached. "You're Corporal Kolinsky."
"Just Dave now, Lieutenant. Ranks are for men still sporting all their limbs." He flashed a smile his eyes failed to mirror.
"Then you knew Walsh, too."
"I did."
"And James?"
He sighed. "Is that what all this is about? What happened to James?"
Grey needed not respond.
"Goddamn Anders, course he couldn't keep…" Another sigh. "Shame what happened to James, real shame, but that's some JAG-level shit right there and—" He paused, giving Grey a hard, speculative look. "And that's who you are. Of course. Fucking Anders. Probably batted his pretty-boy lashes and you couldn't help but get involved."
Grey smirked. "Something like that."
"Well I'll tell you what I told him when he came to me after seeing Walsh and James fighting on the base: stay the fuck out of it."
So JAG Corps wasn't Anders' first port of call after the shooting then. Another piece to the puzzle.
"I may have only known Staff Sergeant Anders for a few weeks, but even I know him well enough to know he isn't about to sit back and let the attempted murder of one of his men go unanswered. And, with all due respect, I'm surprised the team medic of all people so easily did."
Kolinsky kissed his teeth. "You know, Lieutenant, being the team medic is probably a lot like being a judge advocate. You get to see all the bits of a person—even the unsavoury bits people work so hard to keep hidden. And Anders? He's a good sort. Probably too good for this shithole we live in. But James wasn't like Anders. Wasn't like Walsh. He was hot headed and impulsive and loved his liquor and his women a little too much, if you get my drift. And that kind of behaviour? Well, it either gets you hurting or it gets you hated."
"Or killed, apparently."
"Apparently."
"Except it wasn't James who pistol-whipped my face."
Kolinsky frowned. "Are you saying… Bullshit. No fucking way Walsh would lay hands on you."
"Yeah, well tell that to my concussion. And to Anders' conscience."
Kolinsky's brown eyes darkened. "That makes no goddamn sense."
"So Anders isn't exaggerating then when he says he can't reconcile the Walsh we encountered tonight with the Walsh he served with."
"No, ma'am. He wouldn't… I can't fucking believe it." Kolinsky clenched his jaw, looking ahead to the sitting room. "Look, go grab my kit from the bathroom. Need to tend to Anders' hand before it sets."
Grey could sense what he wanted was a minute alone with Anders, but the house was small enough she knew she wouldn't miss anything vital. As she rounded the corner, medical bag in tow, she found Kolinsky straightening Anders mangled fist, voices hushed and low.
"You think he did it now, don't you?"
Anders glared between grimaces. "I don't know."
"Well fuck, Nate, you're the one who decided to open up Pandora's Box, so no going back now."
"I opened it to help Walsh, not fucking condemn him. I wasn't the only one running the trails that day. I knew someone else would come forward eventually, put Walsh in JAG's crosshairs. At least I thought I could control the damage, make sure they understood he wasn't their suspect. Not really."
"Ah right, except I see that look on your face."
"What look?"
"That look, that one right there. The one that tells me you're now questioning everything you thought you knew. Because if Walsh would lay hands on some unarmed broad, why the hell not James? There was clearly some disagreement going on between them, and if Walsh finally opened his eyes wide enough to see the kind of asshole James really was…"
Anders glowered. "Dave, that's enough."
"Oh don't give me that 'don't speak ill of the dead' bullshit."
Grey laughed. "He isn't dead yet."
Both men went rigid.
"Chill, boys. The house isn't exactly soundproof." She held out the medical bag to Kolinsky; he took it with a grumble.
"Look, I get it. You," she said, gesturing to Kolinsky, "you don't trust me because I'm a lawyer and, fair enough, I don't trust lawyers either. We're assholes. And you," she said, looking to Anders, "you want to trust me but think I'm reckless and you don't want my blood on your hands. Which is all fine and dandy, but like Dave said, Pandora's Box has been opened. So you can either ignore it, live with whatever angle JAG Corps decides to prosecute, or you can find out what horrors you actually unleashed. Your choice. But if you go for the latter option, you'll need me."
Kolinsky frowned. "And why is that, sweetheart?"
"Because you're asking the wrong question. It isn't 'why did Walsh attack me', and it isn't even 'why would Walsh want to kill James'."
"Then what the hell is it?"
"Who is Walsh scared of. Who has him so terrified he cuts all social ties, leaves his girlfriend in the dead of night, carries a concealed weapon, and not just spots but anticipates a honeytrap? This is the real world, not some silver-screen thriller, and you guys are Army grunts, not international men of mystery. So please, tell me I'm wrong. And then tell me you don't need me."
Grey collapsed onto the couch, arms draped behind her and legs loosely crossed. She smirked as the men's faces shifted from irritation to confusion to resignation.
"So what's our next move?" Kolinsky asked.
Anders scoffed. "'Our'? I remember you distinctly telling me to—"
Kolinsky straightened Anders' knuckle with a snap, silencing him.
"Yes, our. What is it?"
Grey shrugged. "To approach this from the angle we should have started at."
"Which is?"
"Who wanted James dead."
