Dark Debts (2 page)

“So how'd it go?”

“I'll send you the
National Enquirer
clippings. I'm sure you'll be proud.”

“I am proud. You did the right thing.”

“Then why do I feel like crap?”

“The right thing doesn't have to feel good. It only has to be right.”

Michael sighed. “Listen, can I call you back in a little while? I have to go to a public lynching.”

“Call me when you can. I want the sordid details.”

“You can have them now: I no longer have any credibility as a journalist. I no longer have a relationship with my provincial. I wouldn't place big money on getting a hug from the bishop anytime soon. And the jury is still going to vote to convict. But I did the right thing. God is impressed.”

“Send me the papers.”

“I'll make you a scrapbook.”

Michael hung up. He wasn't about to relive the day's events, not even for Vincent. He stared through the blinds at the dirty windows of the building next door. The air was filled with the usual rush-hour din of taxi horns and sirens of gridlocked emergency vehicles. This time of day the city always depressed him.

Shedding the clerics would help. Like most Jesuits, he hated wearing them, and he certainly couldn't lose himself in the party crowd with them on.

He was halfway out of his shirt when there was a knock at his door. Someone wanting a trial update, or Larry coming to drag him to the party? The possibilities were equally repugnant.

“It's open,” he called, making no attempt to sound hospitable.

“Are you sure?” A female voice.

What the hell?

He pulled his shirt back on. “Relatively,” he said, mostly to himself. He was on his way to the door when it opened and there she stood. Still wearing the green jacket. And a short skirt. And legs that were a near occasion of sin. Not good.

“Hi,” Tess said, smiling.

“How did you . . . ?” He stopped, searching for the rest of the question.

“How did I what?”

He tried to put it together. Had she somehow been invited to the party? Or had she just dropped by to visit? Either way, how had she found him?

“I asked someone which room was yours,” she said, answering his question. “Why? Is there a rule against girls in the dorm?”

“Even if there were, I'm not a big fan of rules, as you know if you were paying attention in court.”

“Apparently you're not a big fan of returning phone calls, either.”

“Do you show up at the doorstep of everyone who doesn't return your phone calls?”

“No.” She let it go at that, but punctuated it with an indecipherable smile.

“I haven't been avoiding you any more than I've been avoiding anyone else,” he said. “I'm a little preoccupied right now.”

“I know. I'm sorry. But if we're going to do this thing, the clock is ticking.”

“Do what thing?”

“The article. Didn't you get my last message?”

“Yeah. Something about me being defrocked and coming to work with you. I'm pretty sure I can sue you for sexual harassment.”

She laughed. She even laughed like a woman with a brain.

“So do you have to go to that party? Because if you don't, the
New Yorker
will buy you dinner and/or a drink and we can talk about the article.”

“I don't think it's a good idea.”

“The article, or dinner with me?”

He didn't answer. In truth, he liked the idea of writing the article. Almost as much as he liked the idea of having dinner with her. But both were minefields, and he was in no shape to negotiate either of them.

“I just don't want to make a decision tonight.”

“Fair enough.”

“For the record, I plan to remain frocked.”

He didn't have to wonder if she understood. It was interesting to see a stunned look on her face. He doubted it was a frequent occurrence.

“I stand advised,” she said, recovering.

“I realize I'm being incredibly presumptuous, but I'd rather be presumptuous now than uncomfortable later.”

“So what you're saying is that you're particular about which rules you break.”

She went on before he had a chance to respond. “Since you're laying down the ground rules, does that mean you're saying yes to the article?”

“I'm saying maybe. I want to sleep on it.”

She nodded. “Good enough. You can call me in the morning.”

“Okay.”

Just when he thought he was safe, she added, “Are you always this skittish around women?”

“Only the ones who follow me home.”

“I don't follow many people home. You should be flattered.”

“I stand advised,” he said.

She smiled, and then she was gone.

H
e woke up at precisely three a.m., from a hazy dream about her. Nothing dangerous, but it was all the sign he needed. He'd call her tomorrow and politely decline her offer. He didn't need to set a new record for how much trouble he could get into at one time. And he knew well the slippery slope that started with a simple “So
why
are you celibate?” Very bad time to be venturing toward that cliff. And besides, there was nothing to be gained from writing the article.

Or was there? He was torn between the idea of letting it all die and the idea of explaining himself to the rest of the world. He was never going to accomplish that by testifying at the trial. It would never change anything that mattered.

What matters?

That used to be such an easy question to answer. But the thing (
The what? The brush with Evil?
) had done something to him. Nothing he could define. He just knew that he had not survived the confrontation—whatever it was—unscathed. The events were over, but something bigger was not.

Someday, at some unexpected hour, it would return. And next time, Michael somehow knew, he wasn't going to walk away so easily.

Next time, in fact, he might not walk away at all.

Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.

—Elizabeth Bowen,
The House in Paris

R
anda couldn't move. She could feel her weight in the chair and it was the only thing keeping her upright. How long was she going to have to stay here? It was three o'clock in the morning and she had to be at work by nine. Or did she? Was this a legitimate excuse to take the day off ? Did she have a right to mourn? And would everyone see it as mourning, or merely as the final chapter in a neurotic obsession?

She had felt uncomfortable at the paper ever since last summer. She knew a lot of people had bought the self-serving pile of crap Cam had spread around, in which she came off as a psychopath.

“How long did you say you've known Mr. Landry?” It came from the older one: a doughy, middle-aged man wearing a shirt the color of Dijon mustard. Neither of them looked anything like she would have expected a detective to look.

I don't know a Mr. Landry. Mr. Landry is someone's political science teacher. I know Cam.

“Seven years. Or eight.” Then she added, “I haven't seen him in a year.” She didn't know whether that was relevant or not. It was certainly relevant to her.

They had made her identify the body. A granite-faced man from the coroner's office had lifted the sheet, while a uniformed cop had supported her by the elbow in case she collapsed. Apparently a fifteen-story fall onto the concrete sidewalk had yielded all sorts of ugliness. She'd have to take their word for it. All she had seen were Cam's eyes. Truth be told, they were all she had ever noticed when she looked at Cam. She noticed everyone's eyes, but Cam's were unlike any she'd ever seen. An ephemeral blue, the color of jeans that have faded just right. But it wasn't the color that gave them their haunting quality, it was the depth. A depth that knew no context, like the light inside a prism. Somewhere near the bottom, a crystal base of hope managed to send a trace of itself to the surface. Along the way it was clouded over by layers of pain and sadness and bitter defeat. That was what she had always seen in Cam's eyes. The hope and the bitterness, locked in mortal combat. Even now, she knew something inside her would be forever scarred by the outcome of that battle.

She glanced at her reflection in the dirty glass partition. Her eyes seemed to be sinking into her face. They looked, as her mother would have put it, like “two little pee holes in the snow.” She tucked a strand of thick blond hair behind her ear, as if that would help. Was thirty-five supposed to look this old? Had she looked so old this morning? God, why was she worrying about how she looked at a time like this?

She braced herself as an angry wave of pain washed over her.

How can this be real? How can Cam be dead? He's outrun it for so long.

Outrun what? What part of her was talking, and what was it talking about? She'd noticed lately (in the last year, maybe?) that there seemed to be a voice inside her head that would blow through, make some grand pronouncement, and then disappear without the slightest desire to explain itself.

“We've been trying to locate a relative to notify. Do you happen to know of anyone?” It came from the younger detective. His light brown hair had a waxy texture that made him look like a Ken doll.

Randa shook her head. “They're all dead.”

“No aunts, uncles, anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

She wondered if she should mention Jack. It wouldn't do them any good, but it would give them something to chase and might therefore get her out of here sooner.

“There's a brother somewhere, but you won't be able to find him. Cam has been trying for years.”

The younger one clicked his ballpoint. “You know his name?”

“Jack. It's probably a nickname, though. They all had fancy names.”

“They all who?”

“Cam and his brothers. There were four of them. “

“And all the brothers are dead, except for this Jack?

“Yes.”

I'm not holding out on you. I don't want to keep the corpse for a souvenir.

“So where does this Jack live?”

“Somewhere around Atlanta, the last anyone heard from him. But that was ten years ago.”

“And there's absolutely no one else?”

It seemed he wasn't going to let go of this until she told him something new. She tried to think. Who would have been called if she hadn't shown up? The answer slammed into her head. She took a deep breath.

“He has a girlfriend. Nora Dixon.”

A lying bitch from some back corner of Hell who'd better not show her sorry ass in here until long after I'm gone, unless you want to add a homicide to your caseload.

“I don't know why she wasn't there,” Randa continued. “I thought they were living together.”

She must have met someone who could do her career more good.

“Wait a minute.” The younger one again. “If she's his girlfriend, who are you?”

“Good question,” Randa said before she could censor it. She immediately hated herself for the venom she could hear in her voice. How could she be mad at Cam
now
?

“What does that mean?”

“I'm sorry,” she said, not sure why she was apologizing. “We used to be friends.”

“Why'd you stop?”

She looked up in time to see Detective Ken Doll wink. Wonderful. Now he was going to flirt with her. Just what she needed.

“I don't see how that's relevant.”

“Whoa.” He made a show of looking around the room. “Are we in court already? Time flies.”

Very cute. David Letterman is quaking in his Nikes.

“What time did you say he called you?” The older one showed no sign of noticing the sparring.

“Around one o'clock.”

“Can you be more specific?” he asked.

“One oh nine? Or nineteen?” Randa said. “I remember a nine on the digital clock.”

“You remember a niiiiiiine? What part of the South are y'all from?”

The part where men talk to women the way you're talking to me, which is why I left.

“Georgia.” She gave him the iciest look she could muster.
Say “peach,” I dare you.

“Georgia,” he repeated, in a tone that implied there was something remarkable about being from Georgia. He let it go at that. He seemed not to be picking up on her unequivocal lack of interest.

The other detective raised an eyebrow. “Did you know Mr. Landry from Georgia?”

“No. We met here. That was just . . . a coincidence.” She trailed off as she heard her father's voice in her head.
“Coincidence is a fool's defense.”
Why she thought she needed to defend herself was another question.

Memories of Cam were starting to emerge, shooting at her like darts. She was surprised at what was coming back. No great moments. A barrage of banality. Stopping to get directions from an old guy in a Shriners hat. An unknown folk singer playing the back room of the guitar store. Late-night dinners in funky little coffee shops. The one with a full bar. Cam's favorite. Following Cam through cramped, musty bookstores while he piled her arms with books she couldn't live a meaningful life without reading. Petty arguments that had turned vicious and personal, only to wind their way back to civility and dissolve in a change of subject or a joke. Sitting here now, she couldn't remember any big events. Had there even been any? Instead, she just felt the time. All the mundane, directionless time that makes up a friendship.

A friendship? Was that what it had been? A friendship that had been hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles for more years than she cared to acknowledge. Did Cam's death mean the sword had been sheathed? Or was she now stuck with it forever?