Lost Light (38 page)

Over time the bottom of the bowl had filled with a layer of run-off granite debris and dust, a layer just thick enough for brush to put down roots and for a body to be buried. It was here that Dorsey and Cross had been led to the body of Antonio Markwell and where they would come back again with Marty Gessler. I found myself wondering how long she had been alive on that night three years ago. Had she been pushed at gunpoint through the tunnel or dragged, already dead, to her final resting spot?

Neither answer was any comfort. I looked back at Lindell as he came out of the tunnel into the opening. His face was ghostly white and I guessed that he might have been considering the same thing.

“Where?” he asked.

I turned from him and scanned the bottom of the bowl and then I saw it. A tiny white cross rising in the brown-and-yellow brush line by the granite facing.

“There.”

Lindell took the lead and walked quickly to the cross. He lifted it out of the ground without a second thought and tossed it to the side. He was already putting his shovel into the ground when I got there. I looked down at the cross. It was made from an old picket fence. At its center point was a photo of a young boy. A school photo framed with popsicle sticks. Antonio Markwell was long gone from this life and this spot but his family had marked it as a holy ground. Dorsey and Cross had then used it because they knew the ground here would never be disturbed by trespassers.

I leaned down and picked the tiny cross up. I leaned it against the granite wall, and then I went to work with my borrowed shovel.

We didn’t really dig with the shovels. We scraped at the surface, both of us instinctively reluctant to drive the point of the blade down too deeply.

In less than five minutes we found her. One final scrape of Lindell’s shovel revealed a thick plastic tarp. We put the shovels aside and we both squatted to look. The plastic was opaque, like a shower curtain. But through it was the distinct outline of a hand. A small withered hand. A woman’s hand.

“Okay, Roy, we found her. Maybe we should back out of here now. Make the calls.”

“No, I want to do this. I . . .”

He didn’t finish. He put his hand on my chest and gently pushed me back away. He then crouched over the spot and started digging with his hands, his arms moving quickly, as though he thought he was in a race against time, that he was trying to save her before she suffocated.

“I’m sorry, Roy,” I said to his back but I don’t think he heard me.

In a few minutes he had uncovered most of the plastic. From her face down to her hips. The plastic had apparently slowed but not stopped decay. The air in the bowl took on a musty smell. Moving back closer and peering over Lindell’s shoulder I could see that Agent Martha Gessler had been wrapped and buried fully clothed, with her arms crossed in front of her. Only half of her face was dimly visible through the plastic. The rest was hidden in blackness; blood in the folds of the plastic. I guessed that they had killed her with a head shot.

“Her computer is here,” Lindell said.

I stepped further forward to see. I could make out the outline of a laptop computer. It was wrapped in its own plastic and left on her chest.

“It holds the connection to Simonson,” I said, though that was obvious by now. “It was their edge. They wanted the body and the laptop someplace where they could get to it. They thought it would keep Simonson and the others in line. But they were wrong.”

I saw Lindell’s shoulders start to shake but I knew he was no longer digging.

“Give me a minute, Harry,” he said, his voice straining.

“Sure, Roy. I’m going to make my way back to the cars and call some people. I left my cell phone.”

Whether he knew I had lied or not, he didn’t object. I picked up one of the flashlights and headed back. On my way back through the smaller tunnel I could hear the big man crying behind me. The sound was somehow picked up and intensified as it came into the tunnel. It was like he was right next to me. It was like he was inside my head. I moved faster. I got to the main channel and was almost running by the time I got to the entrance. When I finally came out into the light it was raining.

 

T
he following afternoon I took another Southwest jet from Burbank to Las Vegas. I still wasn’t allowed back into my house and wasn’t sure I ever wanted to go back anyway. I was still a key part of the investigation but nobody had specifically told me not to leave town. They only say that sort of stuff in movies, anyway.

As usual the flight was full. People going to the cathedrals of greed. Bringing their stores of cash and hope. It made me think of Simonson and Dorsey and Cross and Angella Benton and what part greed and luck had played in their lives. Most of all I thought of Marty Gessler and the bad luck she had. Left to molder for more than three years in that place. She had simply made a phone call to a cop, and that had brought about her own destruction. Good intentions. Trust. What a way to go. What a wonderful world.

This time I rented a car at McCarran and I fought my own way through the traffic. The address Lindell had gotten for me off the license plate number I had given him was located on the northwest side of the city. It was out near the end of the sprawl. For now, at least. It belonged to a house that was newly built and large. It had a French Provincial style to it. I think it did, at least. I’m not that good at that sort of thing.

The two-car garage was closed but off to the side of the circular driveway was a car that wasn’t the one I had been in with Eleanor. It was a Toyota, maybe five years old with a lot of miles on it. I could tell. I am good at that sort of thing.

I parked the rental at the edge of the circle and slowly got out. I don’t know, maybe I thought if I took my time somebody would open the door and invite me in and all my qualms would be eased.

But it didn’t happen. I got to the door and had to push the button and knew I would probably have to push my way in. Figuratively. I heard a chime sound from inside and I waited. Before I needed to ring again the door was answered by a woman, a Latina who looked to be in her sixties. She was small and had a kind but worn face. She looked like she felt bad about the shotgun burns on my face. She didn’t wear a uniform of any type but I was guessing she was the maid. Eleanor with a maid. I had a hard time picturing that.

“Is Eleanor Wish here?”

“Can I say who it is, please?”

Her English was good and carried only a slight accent.

“Tell her it’s her husband.”

I saw the alarm go off in her eyes and I realized that I had been stupid.

“Former husband,” I said quickly. “Just tell her it’s Harry.”

“Please wait.”

I nodded and she closed the door. I heard her lock it. As I waited I could feel the heat working through my clothes, penetrating my scalp. All around me the sun was reflecting brightly. It was almost five minutes before the door was opened again and Eleanor stood there.

“Harry, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I saw everything on TV. CNN.”

I just nodded to that.

“It’s so sad about Marty Gessler.”

“Yeah.”

And then nothing for a long moment before she finally spoke.

“What are you doing here, Harry?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to see you.”

“How did you find this place?”

I shrugged.

“I’m a detective. Was, at least.”

“You should have called me first.”

“I know. I should have done a lot of things but I didn’t, Eleanor. I’m sorry, okay? Sorry for everything. Are you going to let me in or should I just melt out here in the sun?”

“Before you come in I have to tell you, this is not how I wanted to do this.”

I felt a deep downward tug in my chest as she stepped back and opened the door. She raised her hand in a welcoming gesture and I stepped into a foyer area that had arched doorways leading in three different directions.

“It’s not how you wanted to do what?” I asked.

“Let’s go into the living room,” she said.

We took the middle arch and stepped into a large room that was neat and nicely furnished. In one corner was a baby grand piano that caught my eye. Eleanor didn’t play, unless she had taken it up since she’d left me.

“You want something to drink, Harry?”

“Um, water would be good. It’s hot out there.”

“It usually is. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”

I nodded and she left me there. I looked around the room. I recognized none of the furniture from the apartment where I had once visited her. Everything was different, everything was new. The rear wall of the room was comprised of sliding glass doors that looked upon a screened-in pool area. I noticed that surrounding the pool was a white plastic safety fence that people with children put up as a precaution.

Something suddenly began to click about all of Eleanor’s mysteries. The obtuse answers, the car trunk that couldn’t be opened. People carry fold-up strollers in their trunks. People with children.

“Harry?”

I turned. Eleanor was there. And standing next to her was a little girl with dark hair and eyes. They held hands. I looked from Eleanor to the girl and then back and forth again. The girl had Eleanor’s features. The same wave in her hair, the same full lips and bobbed nose. There was something about her demeanor that was the same, too. The way she looked at me.

But the eyes weren’t Eleanor’s. They were the eyes I saw when I looked in the mirror. They came from me.

A sudden rush of feelings welled up in me, not all of them good. But now I could not take my eyes off the girl.

“Eleanor . . . ?”

“This is Maddie.”

“Maddie?”

“Short for Madeline.”

“Madeline. How old?”

“She’s almost four now.”

My mind shifted back. I remembered the last time we’d been together before Eleanor left for good. In the house on the hill. It could have happened then. Eleanor seemed to read my thoughts.

“It was like it was supposed to be. Like something was supposed to make sure we never . . .”

She didn’t finish.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted it to be the right time.”

“When was that going to be?”

“Now, I guess. You are a detective. I guess I wanted you to find out about it.”

“That’s not right.”

“What would have been right?”

Twin skyrockets were going off inside me. One left a trail of red, the other green. They were going different ways. One anger, one warmth. One led to the heart’s dark abyss, a devil’s punchbowl filled with recriminations and revenge I could dip my cup fully into. The other led away from all of that. To Paradise Road. To bright, blessed days and dark, sacred nights. It led to the place where lost light came from. My lost light.

I knew I could choose one path but not both. I looked up from the girl to Eleanor. She had tears on her face and yet a smile. I knew then what path to choose and that there is no end to things of the heart. I stepped forward and squatted down in front of the girl. I knew from dealing with young witnesses that it was best to approach them on their level.

“Hello, Maddie,” I said to my daughter.

She turned her face and pushed it into her mother’s leg.

“I’m too shy,” she said.

“That’s okay, Maddie. I’m pretty shy myself. Can I just hold your hand?”

She let go of her mother’s hand and extended hers to me. I took it and she wrapped her tiny fingers around my index finger. I shifted forward until my knees were on the floor and I was sitting back on my heels. She peeked her eyes out at me. She didn’t seem scared. Just cautious. I raised my other hand and she gave me her other hand, the fingers wrapping the same way around my one.

I leaned forward and raised her tiny fists and held them against my closed eyes. In that moment I knew all the mysteries were solved. That I was home. That I was saved.

 

 

The author would like to gratefully acknowledge the following people for their work in improving and correcting this novel: Michael Pietsch, Pamela Marshall, Philip Spitzer, Joel Gotler, Terrill Lee Lankford, James Swain, Jane Davis, Jerry Hooten, Carolyn Chriss, Linda Connelly and Mary Lavelle.

 

 

Michael Connelly is a former journalist and author of the bestselling series of Harry Bosch novels and the bestselling novels
Chasing the Dime,
The Poet,
Void Moon,
and
Blood Work,
which was made into a movie starring Clint Eastwood. Connelly has won numerous awards for his journalism and novels, including an Edgar Award.

 

A
Darkness More Than Night
is a title I have wanted to use for many years but waited until I had the right story. The title comes from Raymond Chandler, writer of several classic detective novels set in Los Angeles. Once while writing about what made his early hardboiled stories so popular he stated that among other things it was because in these stories the “streets were alive with a darkness that was more than night.” I read that a long time ago and it always stuck with me. It occurred to me while writing my tenth book that this was the story for which that title was made.