Tara Samples was a slightly husky woman with a gap in her bottom teeth that you couldn’t see unless she smiled big, which she hardly ever did. She loved draft beer, cheap bourbon, and Alabama football. She’d let ROTC put her through four years at Jacksonville State University and, in return, had served one tour of duty in Afghanistan. Tara had been home in Bridgeport for a decade since turning in her uniform. She owned and operated her father’s hardware store, attended church every Sunday, donated money to North Jackson High School, her alma mater, and was a fine tax-paying citizen.
However, every so often, when her PTSD would rear up, Tara had to have, as John Anderson liked to sing, a straight tequila night.
The evening of July 11 happened to be one of those occasions, and Fat Boys was her preferred destination. After three shots, she noticed another one placed next to her that she hadn’t ordered.
“Buy you a drink, ma’am?”
Tara turned and peered into the dull eyes of a man she didn’t recognize. Then she pulled back and sized the stranger up. She saw the veins sticking out of his arms, the stubble on his face, and the calluses on his hands. Tara had never married, but she enjoyed a good romp, especially to close out a night of liquor shots.
And the rougher the better. In the army, she’d fucked in closets, gotten diddled while driving an open jeep across the desert, and on one particular batshit night in Ghazni, had a three-way with two superior officers. She squinted at the man, took the shot glass, and kicked it back before slamming it down on the table.
“Another?” he asked.
He’ll do, Tara thought, nodding and placing her hand on the back of his stool.
Six hours later, Waylon lay on his back and looked up at the stars. He was hammered, on the verge of exhaustion. Next to him, Tara ran her fingers down his stomach to his groin. “You got anything left?” she asked.
Waylon guffawed. “Ma’am, no ma’am. Sergeant, you have wiped me out.”
They’d had three more shots at the bar, and then they’d retired to her place, and she’d broken out the handle of Jose Cuervo. She lived in a one-story rancher on two acres of land. After downing half the bottle, most of a saltshaker, and a full lime, she’d taken the sheet off her bed and laid it down on the grass in the backyard.
Though not much of a looker, Tara was an incredible lay, and Waylon figured his sack was bone dry after the marathon she’d just put him through. When the sex was over, Tara had started talking about her time in the army. Her kills.
She’d taken three lives that she knew of in Afghanistan. Waylon had been interested in the details. Two had been machine gun kills. Enemy soldiers who’d crossed her path and would’ve shot her if she hadn’t been quicker. She’d used an M27, a gun that Waylon had read a lot about. He asked her if she still had it, but she ignored the question.
The one that bothered her was her third kill. The last one. She’d come up behind a man in close quarters. Too tight for a gun, so she’d had to use her knife. She’d slit his throat, heard his groan. Felt the air seep out of his lungs and smelled his breath as he dropped to the ground. “I still hear that motherfucker’s groan in my dreams, and I wake up and my bedroom smells of his stale stench.”
She explained that she preferred sleeping outside and pointed to the bed swing she’d hung on the porch. “Great for sleeping, not so much for fucking.”
Waylon had listened to this stranger’s tales of murder and been awestruck. Envious even. Why hadn’t he ever joined the army? His skill set would have been perfect.
He reached for the tequila bottle as Tara lay beside him. He took a long pull and felt a bit dizzy. He wanted to tell this woman about his kill. He had to tell someone. What would be the harm? This bitch was piss drunk. He could always deny everything if she somehow remembered what he’d told her.
Waylon took another sip. He glanced at Tara, who’d closed her eyes. They were both naked, their bodies glistening with sweat, the air reeking of tequila. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth.
“I killed a man,” Waylon Pike said.
12
Hatty Daniels didn’t hesitate when the tip came in. It was a little less than an hour to Jasper, Tennessee, and she arrived in forty minutes, her siren blaring the entire way. Deputy George Mitchell rode shotgun but barely said a word during the ride.
Both knew what was at stake. The Waters murder was a week old, and the Marshall County Sheriff’s Office was being inundated with news coverage, most of it bad. There had even been calls for Sheriff Griffith’s firing.