Scars Read online

  Scars—Previously titled: Scars of the Past

  Copyright © 2019 by B. K. Stubblefield. All rights reserved.

  First Edition: April 2020

  Retitled in August 2022

  ISBN: 978-1-7923-9337-2

  Developmental edits: Ann Leslie Tuttle

  Copy edits: Jim Corbitt/Scribe Power

  Cover Design: Kate Farlow/Y’all That Graphic

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locations, events, business establishments, or actual person—living or dead—is entirely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Books in the Oak Creek Series

  Listed in the order of publication

  CHANCES

  SECRETS

  LIES

  SCARS

  Dedicated to all veterans — past, present, and future.

  Thank you for your service!

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  13. Chapter 13

  14. Chapter 14

  15. Chapter 15

  16. Chapter 16

  17. Chapter 17

  18. Chapter 18

  19. Chapter 19

  20. Chapter 20

  21. Chapter 21

  22. Chapter 22

  23. Chapter 23

  24. Chapter 24

  25. Chapter 25

  26. Chapter 26

  27. Chapter 27

  28. Chapter 28

  29. Chapter 29

  30. Chapter 30

  31. Chapter 31

  32. Chapter 32

  33. Chapter 33

  34. Chapter 34

  35. Epilogue

  Afterword

  PROLOGUE

  The house stood in utter silence. No outside sounds disturbed the unsettling hush; even the low hum of the A/C had paused for the moment. On this hot August day, no air penetrated the moist and sweltering summer heat that wrapped suburbia in a sticky blanket.

  The bantering voices of children had fallen quiet, the neighbor’s constant squabbles with each other had seized, and the anxious yaps of the black Lab tied to a pole on the property next to his had stopped. Neither did he make out the roar of the Mustang belonging to the little punk up the street.

  All activity seemed suspended in this cauldron of heat. As if the house and the outside world united in holding a collective breath—listening, quietly expecting, and waiting for the shot to ring out. It would be over in a moment. Finally, he’d welcome the long-sought peace.

  Alone in his basement, he sat in the old blue rocker his wife had banished from the upstairs sitting room. Big, unsightly spots, caused by his wife’s miniature schnauzer, ruined the fabric on the armrests. The neurotic animal had developed a penchant for the chair’s suede-like texture. The fondness expressed itself in excessive licking across the material, leaving nasty marks in its place. But the dog wouldn’t lick the chair this afternoon; his wife had taken him to the pet spa. For a moment he considered the stains, and it occurred to him they might mingle with his own. As this thought interrupted the raging war in his head, he almost laughed out loud.

  Closed window shades kept the basement cool, yet sweat drenched his body. It soaked his T-shirt and dripped from his temples. With eyes shut tight and feeling every muscle stretched taut across his face, his neck vein bulged and throbbed. His strong, masculine features contorted into a mask of pain. His heart raced, his breath came in short, hard bursts, and he gasped for air as if he’d just completed a marathon race.

  His mind sped, too. Although silence surrounded him, the noises in his head thundered. He hadn’t slept an entire night in what seemed like ages. Every night, without fail, relentless nightmares visited to show him the ugly pictures of humanity and remind him that sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He needed to stay vigilant, look over his shoulders, and remain hyper-aware of his surroundings. When asleep, the touch of someone else’s hand flashed danger, putting his brain and body in attack mode.

  The first night back at home after his deployment into the brutal world of war was also the first time his wife had experienced his changed behavior. The assault came suddenly—pushing her down, restraining her, while at the whole time screaming at an unseen enemy. With no chance of defending herself, she had feared for her life. Until he snapped out of attack mode. When the war zone faded and gave way to the safety of his bedroom, he felt drained, angry, and disgusted with himself. The image of hurting the one he loved most horrified him. He did not fear his own mortality, but accidentally harming his wife or children became a gnawing, unbearable thought.

  With his back against the wall, he was tired of fighting. So tired. And with a few hours of sleep here and there, he lived on the edge of sanity.

  Earlier this day, the shrill whine of a firecracker and the following explosion had pulled a number on him. The blast, too close for comfort, played tricks with his mind. Instantly on alert, his surroundings turned into the battleground. He heard the high pitch whoosh of missiles and had scrambled for cover. He had to protect himself. Once the noise died, he surveilled the house and neighborhood with his gun drawn. He didn’t understand the frenzied gestures of the people around him, waving and pointing. These were his enemies; they had to be neutralized. When, at last, he snapped out of his daze, embarrassment shot through him. The threat had existed in his head only. Exhausted and angry, he separated himself from the surrounding crowd, seeking solitude. No longer fitting in, he needed to be alone.

  His right hand trembled as he held the gun, weighing it, feeling it. With his left, he touched the metal affectionately, tracing every ridge. His grip tightened around the rosewood handle.

  DO IT! The voice in his head shouted and coached.

  You want peace. . . Do it!

  Keep your family safe. . . Do it!

  You don’t want to go insane. . . Do It!

  Now was the time to escape the battlefield. Releasing the pain would be fast, mending all scars.

  DO IT!

  Deliberately, he lifted the weapon and pressed the short barrel against his sweaty temple where the cold steel rested and remained steady for a moment.

  His hand sunk back into his lap as a picture of his family from a happier time—not so long ago—entered his mind. The voice inside his head fell silent as sadness washed over him, squeezing his chest with pain. A sob lodged in his throat and, as he opened his eyes, a wet stream traveled down his cheek and mingled with his sweat. He swiped at the tears, but that didn’t take away the darkness that overshadowed his heart. Loneliness pressed on his shoulders with the weight of a ton of bricks. This time, the voice rose more forcefully. NOW, it shouted.

  Your old life is gone. . .

  You can’t go back. . .

  You’re not a good father to your children anymore. . .

  You’re too fucked up to lead a useful life. . . The BATTLEFIELD is your life!

  The voice consumed his mind and soul, making him believe that he’d never be free of the pain.

  DO IT NOW.

  The voice was right; he wouldn’t escape
. It was time to silence it.

  He lifted the gun and opened his mouth. As if in a trance, he inserted the barrel, pointing it downwards, knowing the bullet would damage the spinal column where it met the base of the skull. He’d make sure of a successful kill.

  BANG!

  The front door slammed shut, and sudden loud noises filled the house, reaching into the basement. His wife and three rambunctious boys were home from their afternoon trip to the city pool. In an instant, the atmosphere in the basement transformed. Life had returned.

  Shocked about the act he’d come so close to committing, his eyes snapped wide open. The prospect of his children making the gruesome discovery of his suicide horrified him even more. A hot wave of remorse and shame crashed over him.

  He lowered the gun, engaged the safety, and put the weapon in its safe and rightful place. The damaging voice in his head retreated, slithering into the shadows of his memories. His racing heart slowed. As his mind cleared, a crystal clear thought formed. Help!

  He needed help.

  Chapter 1

  On this bittersweet April day, Houston Miller strutted off the bus and entered the airport’s terminal. The bounce in his step spoke of contained excitement as he made his way to the automated check-in station. The release papers in his briefcase established his honorable discharge from the Army, making him a brand-new civilian. His laptop, on the other hand, held the many bits and pieces to his astonishing dream.

  Soon he’d be in Oak Creek, the rural Kentucky town he called home. He checked the time and, with still an hour and a half until boarding, Houston picked a bar and grill inside the terminal, claimed the vacant corner booth, and opened his laptop. A few keystrokes and the document named “Heroes Rise Vision” launched. By the time the waiter brought his beer, Houston barely noticed. He never tired of reading and tweaking the document to bring the dream to life.

  Three months earlier, he’d laid on his bunk at base camp, flipping through the TV channels, when a documentary caught his attention.

  A handsome man in climbing gear, rugged like the surrounding mountains, was the focus of the feature. His breath puffed in harsh gusts with every struggling step towards the mountain top. “Ten more steps . . . you got this!” Someone from behind coached with mounting excitement and increasing volume in his voice. “You did it, man! You did it!”

  On screen, the climber reached the summit. Ecstatic at the colossal triumph, he pumped his arms in the air as a celebratory scream from deep inside his chest—a glorious, earth-shaking one—ripped from his throat.

  On TV, the commentator applauded the astonishing feat while inside the barracks room, Houston pumped his fist in admiration for the stranger on the mountain. “Yes, brother,” he shouted out loud, echoing the voices on-screen. “Heroes Rise!”

  The screen switched to a packed pub erupting into applause for the climber. Family and friends, and most of this tiny community, had gathered to watch the triumphant climb via life feed at the local watering spot. The name of a non-profit for veterans scrolled across the screen, calling for donations.

  Behind the bar, the pub’s owner rang a cowbell, the dull, metallic clang silencing the patrons. “Hey, folks. Listen up for a second . . .” The index finger of his free hand jabbed at the TV. “This amazing group just made the impossible possible for our hometown boy. Let’s give ‘em a round of applause.”

  Two climbers, arms draped around each other’s shoulders, smiled from large mounted screens. Tribulations and teamwork had turned them into brothers. With similar skullcaps, bearded faces, and wide, toothy grins, there was only one difference between them—one man had accomplished the difficult climb on two leg prostheses.

  The clanging cow bell silenced the room for a second time. “In honor of our boy, Nick, I’ll be donating today’s proceeds.” Hollers and whistles of cheer greeted the announcement. “So, don’t be shy . . . but don’t be stupid. See me if you need a ride home. This here,” with a swift move he lifted a bucket onto the bar, “will help you get rid of that annoying change. “That’s right folks, keep it coming.” Enthusiasm glowed in his eyes as the first coins hit the bottom. “Oh, and bills are welcome, too.”

  On screen, the national average suicide rate for veterans flashed, and an epiphany had struck Houston. With the force of a lightning bolt, it hauled him off his bed. That’s it! Folks in small-town America raising funds for local veterans. What if . . .?

  He paced, his restless brain pitching fastballs of possibilities. Start a nonprofit for vets and their families, create an environment of support, provide therapy, and a quiet place to unwind. As in the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, the seed planted in the fertile grounds of his mind blew up overnight. Only the sky was the limit. A plan formed. His mountains to climb weren’t of the snow-capped kind, but they were just as difficult to conquer. Houston had no time to waste. A name. He needed a name for his organization. A name that carried strength. Houston kept pacing; the energy wouldn’t let him sit still. In mid-stride he stopped, slapped his forehead as his reaction of Nick on the mountaintop pushed to the forefront. Of course. Heroes Rise! That’s it. It couldn’t be more perfect.

  It’s settled, he wrote in an email to his parents. I’ll trade my combat boots for hiking boots.

  Just a few months ago, he had no clear vision of what life after separation from the Army would look like. Now he had a plan. Fourteen years in the Army had prepared him for this challenge. Houston’s ambitious vision hurled him towards the future. Serving the physically wounded, the psychologically damaged, and those who only wanted ultimate peace from unimaginable horrors, it was the flaming blaze that burned a new purpose into his life. But first things first—he needed money. Lots of money.

  A boarding call from the nearby gate interrupted his thinking and shot him back into the present. Draining his beer, Houston called for the check and stowed the laptop. Boarding would begin in ten minutes. His new life as a civilian waited at the end of that flight.

  On Friday, two days after Houston’s return to Oak Creek, Helen Miller threw a massive welcome home party.

  “What did you do, Mom? Take out an ad in the paper?” Houston smiled and smacked a kiss on top of her head. His homecoming had been a hero’s celebration; Helen Miller had made sure.

  His baby sister, Tessa, flew into his arms, moisture sparkling in her eyes. Aunts, uncles, and cousins came out to welcome him back. Plus, it seemed half of Oak Creek stopped in to shake his hand and slap his back. To have his family together, meeting old friends, the sizzling aroma coming from the commercial-size grill—those simple pleasures felt just right.

  Most folks at the party had heard of the attack on his convoy and, before the night ended, nosy questions of the Afghan incident came up. A nerve under his left eye started ticking; his leg bounced in rapid motion. Houston appreciated the empathy and concerns—they were real—but the thinly disguised thirst for gory details sickened him. He needed to block the prattle from the man sitting in a lawn chair next to him. Houston weighed his options and settled on a half-truth. “You know what? Hold that thought, will ya? Gotta water my horse . . . if you know what I mean.” He winked and pushed to his feet.

  With no intention of returning, Houston headed to a flight of stairs that led to a finished space above his dad’s workshop, closed the door behind him, and welcomed the solitude of his apartment.

  After his return to Oak Creek, he’d settled in the considerable space Helen Miller had turned into a comfortable sanctuary. The entry led straight into the living area. Houston’s gaze swept over the walls painted in a soothing shade of gray, a charcoal-colored sofa and chair that contrasted with the blonde wood of the floor. A white shelf room divider hid the queen-sized bed and dresser. The nearby rustic barn door led to the bathroom, while to the right a minimalist kitchen gleamed in white and stainless steel. This airy, modern space was everything he needed. Houston leaned against the entry door, sucking a deep breath. No, he would not return to the party tonight.


  Reid’s eyes flew open, his body shot upright. Perspiration covered his forehead as confusion stretched into eternity. Deep and greedy, he sucked air until the moment passed. When he found his bearings at the end of the nightmarish memory, he raked his hands across his face and swallowed hard. Jesus Christ! Not the battlefield, he realized, but a damn nightmare.

  A routine patrol.

  The convoy rumbled along a rough-and-rocky dirt road, heavy-duty tires crushing and flattening as it snaked through the inhospitable terrain of the Afghan mountains.

  Under ordinary circumstances, Sergeant Reid McCabe would have described the harsh mountains and the abrasive, untouched landscape as astonishing. But these circumstances were anything but ordinary.

  It was his third tour to Afghanistan. One more week in this godforsaken war pit and he’d be heading home to the lush countryside of his native Kentucky for a much-needed R&R.

  The band of armored vehicles came to an unscheduled stop. Ahead, a vehicle had broken down. Damn! His eyes darted, scanned for life in this desolate wilderness, but the scraggly mountainside appeared uninhabited. Ever vigilant, Sergeant McCabe knew not to let his guard slip.

  Securing the area had the highest priority, and it was his responsibility to cover his vehicle’s right side. Snatching his weapon, he opened the door and jumped onto the hard-packed dirt, tossing up a plume of dust that encased his legs and settled on his boots. His radio crackled. He reached to push the button . . .

  BOOM!

  The eardrum-shattering sound split the air. Time slowed to a snail’s pace as the blast lifted him off the ground.

  The explosive sound had come from a backfiring car, and the bed he woke up in stood in the same room of the house he’d left eleven years ago. His parent’s home. But the pain . . . the crushing pain was back. It burned, and throbbed, and threatened to blow him over.