Fugitive

Chapter 9

The next file contained only pictures. Of the crime scene. Cat's body. Bloody and lifeless on the stained carpet. I turned away ready to be sick. Nothing came reminding me that I hadn't eaten in a while. Any appetite I had was long gone by then. I hadn't wanted to look through the pictures but I needed to see if there was anything I could have overlooked. 

There was something just in view tucked underneath the bed. I brought the photo closer to my face to try and see the image clearer. It didn't work very well. I pulled out my phone, the battery once again going low, and turned on the flashlight. The image while still being unclear was much easier to see now. It was a dog tag. Mine. I'd given it to Toby. He seemed to want it more than I did. He was fascinated with playing with it for a long time. He asked me why I wore a dog tag one day. I told him. He was hooked on the idea of it all. 

Isaacs was still around my own neck. His would never leave my neck. Ever. Not for anyone. Maybe his family deserved it more, but they'd never brought it up and neither had I. After examining the photos for a while I'd accepted there was nothing there that was of any use to me. That just left the bullet. My only lead. I had wanted something better. A single bullet isn't much use. Easy to trace but even so, not that helpful. 

There was a man. A man I met in Afghanistan. Alexander. Last name. Unknown. In fact, I'm not every sure Alexander is his real name. But it's what he told me so it's what I call him. He was in a township we were supposed to be protecting from the Taliban. Only problem was that once we moved out of the town to head to the next, the Taliban would move straight back in. Our work seemed so pointless at the time. We did so much but watched everyting go back to the way it was as soon as we left. I suppose it provided a bit of hope to the locals. Made our country proud.

 We met by accident, but hit it off pretty well. Whenever we got a bit of down time Alexander would meet me at the local bar. He showed me types of tequila I didn't know existed. An email now and again is the only contact we've had since. He's not the kind of guy you want to bring around and he never does anything for free. The guy is sometimes pretty bad news. Last I heard he was living here, in town I mean. But I have no clue where exactly. So, I did some research.

 It wasn't long until I found someone on the street who knew his name. Should have known he'd be a notorious drug dealer or something. Heard whispers he was staying in house on the opposite side of town to the police station. Carefully chosen of course. So, the next day I drove over there. For the most part I had remained out of sight. While everyone was on alert, no one seemed to question me as much as I would have thought. 

Alexander was at 1176 Lake Cole Road. Jut around from the East Side Auto Salvage place. The property had no fencing. The house was a cream color with a brown roof, the paint chipping away and peeling off. A rusted trailer and a sun damaged car were parked on the grass off the dirt driveway. I pulled in and parked on the grass too. I made my way up the steps to the small wooden porch. My knuckles barely made contact with the door when I heard an angered yelling.

 "Fuck off! I told you I don't have any more fucking drugs. So, get the fuck off my balcony"! It was Alexander all right. We weren't that close if I'm being honest. But the guy owes me. Even if he doesn't remember me, because it has been a while, he will remember the favor I did him. My fist pummeled against the door repeatedly. "Fuck the hell off"! Alexander yelled once more opening the door finally. He was holding a small handgun. SIG Pro. Semi-automatic. Sophisticated gun for someone in his line of business. Still I couldn't admire his choice. Considering the latest models out there now that gun is pretty pathetic. 

The gun was lowered at his side. He never aimed it at me but I had no doubt that he would. No doubt he would fire it too. "Ahhhh Jacob Rogers! It's been a long time! I apologize for that, fucking men trying to come over here and demand for drugs". "Hi Alexander", I addressed him with a knowing smile. This is the guy I remember. "Come in", he opened the door wider so I could slip through. He bolted the deadlock behind me. 

"You're all over the fuckin news! Got into some big shit I see. Now that's not the Jacob I remember". I laughed. Alexander dropped the SIG on the same table beside the door. It's only other occupant was a dying plant "Well what do you remember"? "I remember the guy that saved my fucking life. For that I owe you a great debt. Which is most likely why you are here. Are you not"? Alcohol drifted off his lips, but he was sober enough. 

"Actually yes". It was true about me saving his life. There was an incident in Afghanistan once. The Taliban came storming into the town we were staying in. Alexander was there. They had heavy machinery. Several units were gathered there at the time. It wasn't a base, but almost a meeting place of sorts. We lost a few men that day. None that I knew particularly well. Though I'd be lying if I said it wasn't grim. 

Alexander was pulled into a hostage situation. Lost story short, we got him out. I was the one who shot his captor. Alexander had a gun under his chin the entire time. Said it was the, and I quote 'scariest fucking thing of his motherfucking life'. 

"So, what do you want"? Alexander asked sitting heavily on the faded brown chair. The room was dark, the curtains unopened and it smelt funny. Like rotting wood and dust. "Drugs? Money? Fake ID"? "None of those actually. I need information". "What kind of information. I figure a guy like you would be able to figure stuff out of his own". "Do you know who this bullet belongs to"? I handed him the metal. His hand closed around it, bringing it closer to his face. His expression changed for a split second. Could have blinded and missed it. 

"Just a standard bullet I'd say. It's pretty hard to trace a bullet like this". "Don't bullshit me Alexander. I know you can trace it. Who does it belong to? You must know". "Why is this so important to you anyway"? I pulled out the photograph of the crime scene. Alexander grimaced at the sight of Cat's body. "I am sorry about Cat, Jacob. She was your sister, no? I saw it on the news. Terrible thing. I know you couldn't have done that".

 "I didn't. But I need to find out who did. Look, I pulled that bullet from my shoulder the other day after a group of men came to attack me at an apartment". "What happened to the men"? "They're dead. I think". "You think"? "Look that doesn't matter. You know who uses these types of bullets right". By then he was on his feet ready to guide me out the door. "I'm sorry but you'll have to talk to someone else". "I'm not leaving until you tell me who's bullet this is". He muttered something in Russian under his breath. Cursing. "It is a Russian Mafia bullet".