Goodbye to the Dead (Jonathan Stride Book 7) (6 page)

And she did it.

But the price was giving up a normal life.

She spent two hours alone in the condominium above Michigan Street. Two blissful hours in absolute silence. That was what she needed. When she finally left, she was singing quietly to herself, and the shake had disappeared from her hands. The pain in her ankle was gone. Her confidence was back. She could do anything, defeat anyone, win any battle. After the dark days since Jay’s death, when she had felt nothing but despair, she was floating on air again, and she believed for a moment that she might not lose everything. She could almost see a future for herself through the storm.

Her Mercedes was where she had left it, on the top floor of the ramp. Flurries blew around it. A streetlight cast shadows. It was a pretty night. She walked with a lightness in her heart, breathing in the cold air, until she realized that someone was waiting for her.

A man appeared near her car and walked toward her. Janine froze.

‘Don’t worry, Dr. Snow,’ he called.

She didn’t move. She had no weapon and no rape alarm, and even if she did she couldn’t afford to use them. Not when it meant answering questions. Such as what she was doing downtown at that time of night.

The man seemed to know her dilemma.

‘I just want to talk to you,’ he said. He stopped ten feet away with his gloved hands in the air.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Melvin Wiley.’

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s pretty cold out here,’ Wiley said in a reedy voice that was hard to hear above the wind. ‘Would you prefer to talk in your car?’

‘We’ll talk right here. If we talk at all.’

Wiley shrugged, but he wasn’t put off. He was the kind of man who didn’t get noticed in a crowd. You could pass him at the grocery store and not remember he’d been there. He wasn’t short; he wasn’t tall. He wasn’t fat or thin. He had windblown brown hair with a high forehead and a bushy mustache. He had metal glasses that could have been worn by any man on the street. He wore chocolate-brown corduroys, old sneakers, and a blue down coat that he kept half-zipped. Underneath was a flannel shirt. She decided he was in his forties.

‘What do you want?’ Janine repeated.

‘I knew your husband,’ Wiley said. ‘I did some work for Jay.’

‘What kind of work?’

‘You sure you wouldn’t be happier in your car?’ he asked.

Janine said nothing. She waited.

‘People like Jay come to me when they have questions,’ Wiley said.

‘Questions?’

‘Yeah. Typically, the question is, who’s been banging my wife?’

Janine felt the shiver in her body from her feet to her neck. ‘You’re a private detective.’

‘I call it matrimonial research. That’s funny, don’t you think? You have to have a sense of humor for this job. I used to work for the Department of Revenue, but I wanted a career where I could feel good about myself.’

He laughed at his own joke. Janine’s face was dead.

‘Most people are easy targets,’ Wiley went on. ‘You follow them for a day or two, and there they are, kissing outside the motel room or in the car. Stupid. You’re much better. Really, that’s a compliment. You were pretty good at shaking a tail for a doc. I bet it was a month before I found the place across the street. Even when I did, it looked like you were always alone. Smart, you going in the back while he went in from the front. Very smart. So I had to get creative. I put a camera in the air vent in your bedroom. That new HD technology is expensive but amazing. Once I had that in place, things got interesting.’

Janine took two steps and slapped him hard across the face. He took it without flinching and rubbed the red welt she left behind. She didn’t think it was the first time he’d been slapped.

‘Got that out of your system?’ Wiley asked. He dug in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a manila envelope. ‘Here, take a look, these are your greatest hits. I printed stills, but I’ve got video, too.’

Janine opened the envelope and slid out one page. She recognized her own bare skin. And her lover’s. The closed eyes on her face. His naked back and her legs wrapped around him.

‘You’re disgusting,’ she snapped. ‘What do you want? Money?’

‘Well, I’m feeling a little torn here, Dr. Snow. I showed Jay what I got with my camera inside your little love nest. Since the police didn’t find it, I’m guessing he destroyed what I gave him. Or maybe you did, who knows. Anyway, I figure it’s my civic duty to do something with this. Jay’s dead. I should really hand everything I found over to the police, you know? Or heck, if I was a mercenary kind of guy, I might sell it. There are tabloids that would pay big bucks for this kind of thing.’

‘How much do you want?’ Janine asked. Her voice was drained of life.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. You might want to put me on retainer. A monthly stipend to do research for you. You’d be surprised how handy it can be to have a detective on the payroll.’

‘I’m leaving,’ Janine said.

‘Sure. No problem. Take the envelope with you. I’ve got more where those came from.’ Wiley reached into his pants and slid out a business card. ‘You think about it, Dr. Snow, and then you give me a call, okay? We’ll work something out.’

She said nothing.

Wiley strolled away, disappearing in a cloud of snow. She heard his footsteps descending the ramp. She was alone again. The lightness in her soul had turned to lead, dragging her back into a black hole. Twenty years had passed since she was a Texas blond, dreaming that she would make something of herself. Twenty years, and nothing in between seemed to matter at all.

9

Cindy slipped out of bed after midnight. Her skin was moist with sweat, and she shivered, because the house was as cold as a drafty barn. Jonny slept heavily, with a bare leg outside the blankets. He always slept like the dead after they made love. Normally, she did, too, but not tonight. She felt restless, but she wasn’t sure why.

She went to her closet and grabbed a robe, which she pulled around her naked body. Her long black hair was a mess. She padded in her little bare feet to the kitchen and switched on the light over the sink. Quietly, she unloaded the dishwasher, pushing up on tiptoes to reach some of the cabinets. There was something about an empty dishwasher that gave her a feeling of accomplishment.

She sat down at their small kitchen table. Reaching over to the counter, she turned on the radio to the Duluth MPR station and listened to classical music at a volume barely louder than a whisper. It was something dreamy and soft. She listened to it along with the persistent ticking of the clock over the refrigerator.

Jonny’s old leather jacket was draped over one of the chairs. She shook her head with a smile. She’d teased him for years about getting rid of it, but Jonny never gave up anything from the past. She saw the bullet hole in the sleeve. She still remembered the night when Jonny’s mentor, a cop named Ray Wallace, had shot himself in a North Woods cabin rather than face corruption charges. Ray had shot Jonny before putting the gun in his own mouth. She remembered the call from the hospital. Remembered her husband’s ashen face. Those were the calls you feared when you were married to a cop. You woke up every morning, and you wondered if this would be the night you went to bed alone and in tears.

It was hard to imagine her life without him. And yet she lived with that perpetual shadow.

He’d brought home papers with him from the Detective Bureau. Documents. Files. Evidence. He usually did. He’d intended to work through the evening, but she’d interrupted his good intentions by straddling his lap. From there, they went to bed, and he never left. The evidence in Jay’s murder investigation was spread all over the table, and although she didn’t usually pry – well, who was she kidding? She pried all the time.

Cindy grabbed the top-most paper and turned it over. It was a photograph, taken somewhere in the Duluth woods. The picture showed the figure of a man, blurry because of the distance. He was young, scrawny, tatted, in camouflage, holding what appeared to be an assault rifle. In the first picture, he was in profile, but when she grabbed another page, she saw his eyes. She couldn’t really see details in his face, but his eyes reminded her of a shark’s. Utterly empty. Not ferocious like a wolf on the hunt. Eyes devoid of life. Eyes that saw nothing but the gray darkness of the water.

Jonny had written on a Post-it note on one of the pictures:
Who is this guy?

And on another:
Find him.

Cindy turned the photos face-down again. She didn’t want to stare at them anymore. Something about the man’s face left her with a hollow pit of anxiety in her stomach.

She got up from the table. She went to the hall closet and retrieved her heavy winter coat and her furry boots. She retreated to the porch at the back of the house and let herself out through the rear door. Their backyard was really nothing but a sand dune. She pushed through snow and rye grass, climbing to the top of the slope and then down to the beach by the great lake.

The city glowed on her left. White lights marked the buildings, and red lights blinked on the antenna farm high on the hillside. At her feet were boot prints, the tracks of dogs, and the parallel rails where cross-country skis had slid up and down the snow-covered shore. The lake was loud, but it was invisible behind a wall of ice taller than she was. Each winter the waves built a mountain range. It made the lake scary, because she couldn’t see it. Somehow, with every bellow of thunder, she expected a tsunami to crest the wall and wash her away.

Cindy stood there with her hands in her pockets. The few inches of skin where her legs were bare felt raw. She had the beach, the city, and the night to herself. There was something hypnotic about the noise of the wind and the waves. She thought about everything. Her mind was a grasshopper, jumping this way and that.

She thought about Jonny. She could still feel him inside her, could still feel his hands on her body afterward. They had such a familiarity with each other. He was still a little repressed about sex after all these years, but to her, it was as natural as breathing or crying. She could remember all the way back to their first time, on a summer night by a small lake in a city park. The two of them, teenagers, naked in the water. And then making love with sand on their bodies and mosquitoes biting at their skin. Magic.

That was so long ago. Funny how you took each day and put it on top of the one before, and before you even knew it, you had a lifetime.

She thought about her family. Hardly a family. Her mother, who died young, leaving them alone. Laura, taken from her that same summer night she fell in love with Jonny. Her father, a sanctimonious old hypocrite, who used God as an excuse for his meanness to everyone who was close to him. It was hard to say she didn’t miss him, but she didn’t.

She thought about Janine. They’d known each other for five years. Her friend could not take a gun and shoot her husband. She didn’t believe it. And yet Jonny always said you could never really know another person. Every individual was unfathomable, living inside their own soul, sharing it with no one else. She would never have said it aloud, but she wondered if she was being naive.

Was she wrong about Janine?

She put those doubts out of her mind. She had strength of will, which was something that her faith had given her. You could choose to be happy or unhappy. It was up to you. Jonny didn’t share her devotion to religion, but she didn’t need him for that. Her beliefs were for her and her alone.

Cindy thought about better things. Golf. It was winter now, but soon enough, she would be on an emerald-green fairway, three-wood in hand. She reflected on her clients and their problems and what she could do next to help them with their rehabilitation. There were always other things to try. She thought about country music and Jonny’s cute little crush on singer Sara Evans. She thought about her Outback, which needed a wash. She thought about Sammy’s sausage pizza. They were all the little things that meant nothing and made up a life.

And then, from nowhere, the pain came.

This was not pain. She’d experienced pain before.

This was a spike catapulted upward between her legs, lifting her off the ground, sucking a cry from her chest, driving her to the snow. If she could have died right then to obliterate the agony splitting apart her insides, she would have picked death. She had no warning as it hit. It was simply there, and then it was gone, leaving no memory, as if it had been a phantom. She found herself on her knees, sweating, trying to understand what had just happened to her.

The strange thing was, she knew.

Deep in her closet of terrors, she knew.

10

Howard Marlowe heard glass breaking.

It came from upstairs in the front of the house. It wasn’t a small noise, like a wine glass breaking in the sink. Something shattered, something big. He bolted to his feet from behind his desk, and he felt scared and ridiculous, wearing nothing but his white underwear. Goosebumps rose on his arms.

The empty eyes of the Easter Island statues stared at him from the poster on the wall.
Do something
, they told him.

Howard crept on tiptoes on the green shag carpet, as if he needed to be quiet in his own house. At the doorway, the basement hallway was cold and damp. The lights were off. He told himself that maybe he’d imagined the noise, but he could hear more glass breaking now, like rain. He reached behind the office door and grabbed a softball bat made of red aluminum. With the bat cocked over his shoulder, he stutter-stepped down the carpeted hallway to the stairway leading to the main level of the house. The wooden steps were unfinished, and the wall was unpainted plasterboard. He climbed two steps and listened.

Someone was overhead, moving around in their living room.

‘Hey!’ he shouted as loud as he could, in the deepest voice he could summon. ‘Hey, get the hell out! The police are coming! I’ve called 911!’

Which he hadn’t. He had no phone in the basement, and his cell phone was in their bedroom. He gripped the rubber handle of the bat with sweaty hands and took two more steps toward the closed door above him.

‘Did you hear me? Get out!’

Carol screamed from upstairs. His wife’s voice was gutted with fear. ‘Oh, my God, Howard! What’s going on? Where are you?’

He reached the top step and grabbed the handle of the plywood door. He found he couldn’t summon the courage to twist the knob. He listened and heard footsteps, barely six feet away on the other side of the flimsy piece of wood. Voices, too. More than one. The footsteps thumped, and he heard his front door open and felt the house seize with the change in air pressure. Icy drafts blew under the door and chilled his legs.

‘Howard! Howard!’

Other than the half-finished basement, their house was on one level. A hallway off the living room led to three bedrooms. Carol was trapped in one of those bedrooms, steps away from the people who had invaded his house. His six-year-old daughter was in another bedroom.

‘The police are almost here!’ he shouted. ‘You better get out!’

The noises had stopped. There were no more voices, nothing but the rush of air from the front door. He pushed an ear to the door, and when a minute of silence passed, he twisted the door knob and inched the basement door open. The lights were off, but the glow of the streetlight revealed a shower of glass on the hardwood floor like diamonds. He didn’t see anyone, but he could smell the sweaty odor that strangers had left behind. His finger flicked the light switch, and he squinted. The intruders had fled. The front door was wide open, letting in snow and wind. He took tentative steps into the middle of the room, twisting his head to check in every direction, and feeling ripples of cold and fright down his back.

Carol’s laptop was missing from the dining room table. She’d been using it there before they went to bed. The three drawers of his grandmother’s oval accent table had been pulled out and dumped. He kept almost one hundred dollars in cash there for pizza deliveries, and the money was gone. Next to the living room sofa, two of their tall casement windows had been kicked inward, leaving shards around the frames.

‘They’re gone,’ he called to his wife. ‘It’s okay.’

He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. When he hung up the phone, he realized that Carol hadn’t come out of their bedroom. He went to check on her, but the bedroom was empty. The sheets were rumpled. A flicker of concern flashed in his heart. He rushed to the closed door of the next bedroom, which belonged to Annie, and flung it open. The nightlight was on. Carol was in a rocking chair, and Annie was asleep in her arms, utterly undisturbed.

His wife’s face was a mask of tears. Her eyes were wide open and red. Mucus dripped from both nostrils. Her lower lip trembled, and she clutched their daughter so tightly that Howard was afraid she would suffocate her. He knew Carol, and he understood. The bubble had popped. The wolf had come. Carol cherished their ordinary, predictable life, and now its sanctity had been violated. Certain things, when they were taken away, never returned.

‘They’re gone,’ he repeated.

She opened her mouth and closed it. She wiped her nose on her wrist. ‘You weren’t in bed. You weren’t there.’

‘Sorry, I was working in my office. I couldn’t sleep.’

Carol leaned her cheek against Annie’s hair. ‘They could have murdered us.’

‘Carol, they were probably just kids,’ Howard told her. ‘They took your laptop.’

‘That’s what you’re concerned about? A laptop? I could have been raped! Killed! They could have taken Annie!’

‘I know. The police will be here soon. I’m going to check if anything else is missing.’

Howard left Annie’s bedroom. He returned to the icy living room and realized he would need to board up the broken windows tonight. The temperature was around zero. He went to the front door, which was still open. Looking out through the storm door, he saw footprints running across their yard in the snow. Kids, he told himself.

He closed the door.

Howard returned to his empty bedroom and slipped on sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He checked the other rooms and made sure nothing else had been taken. Just the computer and the cash. His shouts had interrupted them before they made their way deeper into the house.

Just kids.

I could have been killed.

Howard heard his wife’s voice in his head as he stood in front of the broken windows and waited for the police lights to appear on the street. He thought to himself: And what if she had been killed? What if he’d gone into the bedroom and found his wife’s body there?

Shot. Or strangled. Or stabbed.

Howard thought about Janine Snow.

That was her story, too. She took a shower, and when she came out of the bathroom, she found her husband dead on the living room floor. An intruder had come and gone. Murdered Jay Ferris. Taken jewelry from their bedroom. So she said.

It was such a long way from Howard’s little house to that mansion on the hill. He had nothing in common with a woman like Janine Snow. Except now he did. A burglary could happen to anyone. He thought about her photograph, her blond hair, her put-together look, her arrogant beauty that was so intoxicating. And then he imagined her standing over her husband’s murdered body.

No one believed her.

Howard thought: Would anyone believe
him
?

What if those kids had killed his wife? You’re living your life, and suddenly a random act of violence changes everything. People start tearing apart your whole world. The police. The media. Pretty soon, they find out your secrets. Things that make you look guilty, even when you’re not. Everybody had things like that. You could take anybody’s ordinary life and turn it into something dark and criminal.

Look at Howard Marlowe. He murdered his wife.

Look at Janine Snow. She murdered her husband.

He heard movement behind him. Carol stood there, arms folded across her chest. She looked like someone who’d opened a closet door and seen the devil hiding inside.

‘I want to get a gun,’ she said.

Howard cocked his head. His wife hated guns. She’d told him over and over that if you brought a gun into the house, sooner or later, it got used, and someone got killed. Accidents happen. Arguments happen. Kids play games.

No guns.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Howard asked. ‘I thought that you
—
’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Carol screamed at him. He barely recognized her. ‘I’m never going through something like that again! Get me a gun, Howard!
I want a gun!
’