Free Hell Hole by Chris Grabenstein Page B

inside to use the restroom.”
    â€œSo our witnesses might also be witnesses to whatever really happened in that men’s room?”
    â€œRoger that.”
    Awesome. We’re on a parallel path. Our investigative duties will just happen to coincide with whatever went down when Smith stepped into that toilet stall. Maybe some of the people we talk to will just happen to mention whatever they saw in the bathroom. Especially if we just happen to ask them about it.

11
    Smith’s small car is parked on top of the dancing dolphin mosaic in the driveway of the party house at 22 Kipper Street.
    The soldiers are in the fenced-off backyard grilling steaks. I can hear meat sputtering. I also hear beer tabs popping free. The PVC fence railings have been turned into a laundry line for wet swimsuits and damp towels. Guess the guys went boogie boarding earlier. Guess the customary mourning period for their fallen comrade is over.
    We climb out of my Jeep and walk past the overflowing recycling bins. Dixon tosses the ball of tin that used to be his beer can over the fence at the open Rubbermaid barrel. He sees us.
    â€œOfficer Boyle! Where’s young Officer Starky?”
    â€œShe works nights,” I say.
    The guys behind Dixon give me a major league “hoo-hah” on my she works nights comment.
    Dixon eyeballs Ceepak. “Who’s your new girlfriend?”
    I think he means Ceepak.
    Ceepak cracks a smile. Takes a step toward the gate that opens into the backyard patio.

    â€œJohn Ceepak. I served with the One-oh-one.”
    Dixon moves to the gate. Doesn’t open it. “How many tours?”
    â€œFirst wave.”
    â€œDown range?”
    â€œBaghdad. Sadr City. Fallujah.”
    Dixon nods. “You re-up?”
    â€œNegative.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œLong story.”
    Dixon smiles. Gestures toward the Igloo ice chest loaded down with bottles and cans.
    â€œI’ll buy you a beer,” says Dixon. “You can tell me all about it.”
    â€œI’ll take a rain check on that,” says Ceepak.
    Now Dixon’s smile becomes a smirk. “Me and my men? Three tours.”
    â€œFour, sir!” shouts the shortest one as he fishes out a fresh beer.
    â€œI stand corrected, Private Hernandez. Mickey Mex went back four different times. Figures America might let him stay in the country, now. Hell, we might even let his girlfriend come over.”
    â€œHoo-hah!” says Hernandez.
    â€œShe’s a hooker down in Tijuana, right Mickey?”
    â€œ Sí. ”
    â€œWhat is she? Sixteen or seventeen?”
    â€œFifteen, sir!”
    Over at the grill, there’s a minor grease flare-up, which the sleepyeyed tall guy, the one they call Lieutenant Worthless, douses with a splash of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.
    â€œSo, Sergeant,” Ceepak asks, “what brings you gentlemen to Sea Haven?”
    â€œThis is my uncle’s house,” says Dixon. “I kept promising my guys that if we made it out of the sandpit alive, if we hung together and covered each other’s asses, we’d have a fucking beach blanket blowout before we rotated back. Burnt meat, cold beer, and hot babes!”
    â€œHoo-hah!”
    â€œWe’re sorry about your loss,” says Ceepak softly.
    â€œYou mean Smith?” says Dixon. Then he belches. “Fucking pussy.
Couldn’t handle the dark mental shit that comes with doing the job.”
    â€œMany soldiers experience emotional stress when confronted with the realities of war.”
    â€œJesus. Did you do your tour as a fucking shrink?”
    â€œNo. Military police.”
    â€œMP? Then you’ve seen Smith’s type. Hell, maybe you even arrested him. Fucking hophead. Got into that serious Afghan shit flowing across the border from Iran, big-time.”
    â€œHeroin?”
    â€œAnd hash. Used to fuck himself up royally before we’d saddle up. Every mission, Smith was high as a fucking