Bones of the Lost

piece.
    “Leave my mother out of this.” Slurred.
    I rolled on, desperate for the sound of sirens.
    “How’s it feel to dishonor the Corps?” Images flashed in my brain. Tattoos. Badges. “And Ripper. I assume you and Rockett hooked up during Desert Storm. Was the scheme his idea?”
    “Rockett couldn’t scheme his way off a toilet seat.” Still woolly, but stronger.
    “Was Rockett about to blow the whistle on his old task-force buddy? That why he had to go?”
    Gross’s shoulders hitched. For a moment I thought he might laugh.
    “What was Candy’s sin? She try to escape? Threaten to talk? Pain in the ass, so just run her down? Was Majerick your muscle on that one, too?”
    “Aren’t you the fucking hotshot. Got all the answers.”
    I kept talking, and, though my wrist was on fire, tightened my grip on the pipe.
    “That why you killed the kid at Sheyn Bagh?”
    “Collateral damage.”
    “Aqsaee came at you, all right. But not as an insurgent. He wanted to confront you about Ara. That’s what he yelled, right? Ara, not Allah. I guess Eggers’s hearing it wrong helped you with your story.”
    “Eggers is a jackass.”
    “Aqsaee identified you as the man who stole Ara. He would have told the village elders.”
    Remembering the Polaroid in my backpack, my loathing burned more fiercely.
    “Why Ara? Why not Khandan or Mahtab or Laila or Taahira? Or were they in the crosshairs, too, you miserable sonofabitch.”
    “Girls have shit going for them over there.” Cold now. Controlled. I again tightened my grip.
    “And you were going to make the world their dance floor.”
    Gross brought one knee up and planted his foot. Swayed. Steadied himself.
    I raised the pipe. “One move and I bash in your skull.”
    Our eyes locked. Gone was any trace of the falsely accused war hero. Before me was a calculating predator.
    Several beats, then Gross made his move. Too slow, too obvious. I read it and sidestepped his kick. Thrown off balance, Gross stumbled, then spun to face me.
    I raised the pipe, ready to swing harder than I’ve ever swung in my life. But my action was also signaled. Gross lifted his forearms to parry the blow.
    I checked my motion, dropped the pipe low, and brought it up in his crotch with all the power I could muster.
    Gross doubled over.
    Giving me time.
    I hammered his shins. His knee caps.
    Gross dropped and curled fetal.
    I stepped close and raised the pipe over his head.
    My heart pounded. My breath wheezed in jagged gulps.
    A thin wail penetrated the pandemonium in my ears and chest.
    I stood, weapon poised, muscles flexed.
    The wailing separated into sirens.
    Reason overrode primal fury.
    Or maybe I knew help was at hand.
    I did not bring the pipe down.
    Shortly, cruisers screamed up to the fence. Doors slammed. Lights pulsed red and blue on the house of horror at my back.

EPILOGUE
    October is schizophrenic in Charlotte. One day you’re in shirtsleeves. The next you’re pulling on jacket and gloves.
    The cold arrived on Sunday. It was a bitch bringing plants inside one-handed.
    Monday I decided to build a fire. After much clumsy choreography, flames danced behind the antique brass screen shielding the hearth. The parlor smelled faintly of smoke and pine.
    I’d done my duty in the wee hours of Friday morning. Seated in the back of a cruiser, I’d answered a barrage of questions from Slidell, a few from reporters who’d caught word via police-band receivers. I’d even given Allison Stallings a heads-up.
    I’d seen Gross and his victims placed aboard ambulances. Heard Slidell contact headquarters to ensure that the girls were met by interpreters and SANE nurses. Watched Majerick and Rockett loaded into an ME van. Then, at Slidell’s insistence, I’d accepted a ride to the emergency department at CMC.
    Thanks to Skinny’s phone bluster, I was treated immediately. X-rays revealed a broken scaphoid and a linear fracture of the distal radial border in my right wrist. The ED doc was astounded at my tale of hefting a pipe. I went home in a thumb spica splint the size of a mallet.
    Perhaps he knew the strength of the painkillers I’d been issued. Perhaps he was busy grilling Story and Gross. Slidell gave me the weekend before coming to visit. Bearing a floral arrangement the size of an offshore rig.
    In the intervening days Slidell had learned the following.
    The bullet Larabee dug from Rockett’s brain was fired from Majerick’s gun. So were the two dug from his gut, and one dug