The Face of Death (33 page)

Alan doesn’t answer right away. He fixes his gaze on Kirby, thoughtful. She bears this scrutiny without a seeming care in the world.

“You’ll protect my wife and the girl?”

“With my life. Though geez, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, huh?”

“And you’re good?”

“Not the best there is, but darn close.” Unending cheerfulness, the optimistic assassin.

Alan nods. “Then I’m glad to have you. And Elaina will be too.”

“Coolness.” She turns to me with the snapping-fingers look of someone remembering something they’d almost forgot. “Oh hey. I need to ask. If the cuckoo-bird does come calling—do you need him alive or dead?”

The smile doesn’t falter. I look at this very dangerous woman and consider my answer. If I ask her, Kirby Mitchell will consign The Stranger to the category of “other.” If he shows his face, she’ll kill him with a smile and head off to the beach for a bonfire and some beer. I only hesitate because I understand; this is not a theoretical question she’s posed.

Want me to kill him? Hey, no problem. I’ll do that, and then we’ll hit a club, drink some margaritas. Coolness.

“I’d prefer him alive,” I say. “But keeping Elaina and Sarah safe is the priority.”

It’s a shitty, evasive answer. She takes it in stride.

“Gotcha. Now that that’s settled, I’m going to head over to the hospital. I’ll be there until tomorrow, and then we’ll move her over to your place, big guy.” She stands up. “Can one of you escort me out of here? And hey, can you believe all this rain?”

“I’ll take you,” Alan says.

She whirls out of the office, leaving me feeling like I’ve just been run over, but, somehow, in a
good
way.

I look at my watch. It’s after six o’clock. Ellen, our in-house counsel, might still be here. I pick up the phone and dial her extension.

“Ellen Gardner,” she answers. She sounds calm, unruffled. Ellen always sounds this way. It’s just a little bit inhuman.

“Hi, Ellen, it’s Smoky. I need a subpoena.”

“Hold that thought,” she answers without hesitation. “Let me get a notepad.”

I picture Ellen, sitting behind her cherrywood lawyer’s desk. She’s an angular woman, made of up lines that are not so much severe as they are businesslike. She’s in her mid-fifties, with brown hair that she keeps cut short (and dyed, I suppose—I’ve never seen a gray), and a tall, thin, almost boyish frame. Ellen is crisp and precise and all business—a lawyer, in other words. I heard her laugh, once. It was a merry, unfettered sound that reminded me not to hold to stereotypes.

“Go ahead,” she says.

I tell her everything, the big picture as well as the specifics of the Langstrom trust.

“So the lawyer says we need a subpoena to compel him,” I finish. “He says he’ll cooperate as long as it ‘legally sets aside his obligations to comply with the rules of privilege.’”

“Right,” she replies. “That’s where you have a problem.”

“What?”

“There’s no legal grounds for a subpoena to compel yet.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. At this moment, all you have is a closed case. A murder-suicide. Following that, you have an anonymous philanthropist who decides to set up a trust to care for the home and for Sarah. But there’s no crime established yet, right?”

“Not officially,” I admit.

“Okay. Next question: Is there any way to establish that the trust itself is an ongoing criminal enterprise? Does its existence assist, or was it set up to assist, in the commission of a crime or fraud?”

“That might be more difficult.”

“Then you have a problem.”

I chew my lip, thinking. “Ellen, the only information we really need is the name of the client. We need to know who he is. Does that help?”

“Gibbs is claiming privilege on that because the client requested confidentiality of identity?”

“That’s right.”

“That won’t hold up. If you can prove it’s probable the client has information vital to an ongoing investigation, I can get you that name.”

“I gotcha.”

“It has to be real, though. Start by finding something that changes the Langstroms’ murder-suicide to good old-fashioned double murder. Once you have that, the trust becomes a logical avenue of investigation, and we can compel Gibbs to reveal the identity of his client.” The tone of her voice changes, friendlier, less crisp. “I’m giving it to you straight, Smoky. Gibbs might have seemed helpful, but that little phrase he dropped on you about ‘legally setting aside his rules to comply with privilege’? It’s a bear.”

I want to argue, but I know it’s a waste of time. Ellen is a solver. She thinks in the direction of
how could we,
not
you can’t because
. If she’s saying it, she’s saying it because it’s so. I sigh, resigned.

“Gotcha. I’ll get back to you.”

I hang up and dial Callie.

“Overworked Incorporated,” she answers. “How can I help you?”

I smile.

“How is it going there?”

“Nothing to brag about yet, but we’re taking it slow. We’re still processing the front of the house.”

I fill her in on the day from where our paths diverged. I begin with Gibbs, continue with Nicholson, and end with Ellen. She’s quiet for a moment after I finish, digesting this.

“This has been quite the forty-eight hours, even for you.”

“You can say that again.”

“Well, call it quits then. Gene and I are here. James is off being disagreeable somewhere. Bonnie is waiting at Alan and Elaina’s. If you’re not going to listen to me and get a dog, honey-love, then at least go home and see your daughter.”

I smile again. Callie is Callie—she can almost always make me smile.

“Fine,” I say. “But call me if you find anything.”

“I kind of promise to maybe do that,” she quips. “Now go away.”

I hang up and sit back, closing my eyes for a moment. Callie’s right. It’s been an insane few days. Singing, blood-covered sixteen-year-olds. The terrible diary.

And the one that hits home, suddenly. My hands tremble against each other. I bite my lower lip, using the pain to fight back tears.

A man killed himself in front of me today, Matt. Looked at me, spoke to me, and then put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His blood was on my face.

I didn’t know Dave Nicholson. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t in that category that Kirby had talked about. He wasn’t “other.” He was one of us, all human, and I can’t help mourning him.

I hear footsteps on the carpet, and I swipe my hand across my eyes. A knock, and Alan pokes his head in.

“I got your friendly neighborhood killer off to her car.”

“How does home sound? At least for a little while?”

He thinks about it. Sighs.

“For a little while, yeah. That’s a great idea.”

41

I TOLD ALAN I’D MEET HIM AT HIS HOUSE; I HAVE ONE OTHER
stop to make.

I drive to the hospital through more rain, and that’s fine, because I’m raining inside. It’s nothing heavy, just a light but continuous drizzle. This is a part of the job, I reflect. The internal weather. Home and family is sunshine, most of the time. Work is almost always rain. Sometimes it’s thunder and lightning, sometimes it’s just a drizzle, but it’s always rain.

I realized some time ago that I don’t love my job. It’s not that I dislike it—far from it. But it’s not something to love. It’s something to do because you have to. Because it’s in your blood. Good, bad, or indifferent, you do it because you don’t have a choice.

Except now you do have a choice, don’t you? Maybe there’s more sunshine to be found at Quantico, yes?

Even so.

I reach the hospital parking lot and park and resolve, as I race through the rain to the front doors, to be quick. It’s almost seven o’clock, and I feel the need for a heavy dose of Elaina and Bonnie. Some sunshine.

When I get to the room, Kirby is there, sitting in a chair outside the door, reading one of those trashy gossip tabloids. She looks up at the sound of my footsteps. Those leopard eyes flash for a moment before she hides them behind a twinkle and a smile.

“Hey, boss-woman,” she says.

“Hi, Kirby. How is she?”

“I introduced myself. I had to do some talking, let me tell you. She wanted to be sure I could kill things. I had to convince her, or she wanted me gone. I convinced her.”

“Okay.”

“Good” or “Great” doesn’t seem appropriate.

“That’s a fucked-up child, Smoky Barrett,” Kirby says. Her voice is soft, cozened perhaps by a hint of regret. It’s a new sound, and it makes me consider her in a new light.

Kirby seems to sense this. She smiles and shrugs. “I like her.” She turns back to her paper. “Go on in. I need to find out what’s happening with Prince William. I’d jump his royal bones in a heartbeat.”

This yanks a grin from me. I open the door and enter the room. Sarah’s lying in bed, looking through the window. I don’t see evidence of any books, and the TV’s off. I wonder if this is all she does all day, if she just lies here and stares out at the parking lot. She turns to see me as I come in.

“Hi,” she says, and smiles.

“Hi yourself,” I reply, smiling back.

Sarah has a good smile. It’s not pure like it should be—she’s been through too much—but it gives me hope. It shows that she’s still herself inside.

I pull up a chair next to her bed and sit down.

“So what do you think about Kirby?” I ask.

“She’s…different.”

I grin at this. It’s a concise and perfect description.

“Do you like her?”

“Sure, I guess. I like that she’s not afraid of anything, and that she chooses to do this kind of thing. You know—dangerous stuff. She told me not to feel guilty if she gets killed.”

This is enough to get rid of my grin.

“Yeah. Well, she’ll protect you, Sarah. And she’ll protect the people who live in the home you’re going to tomorrow too.”

She frowns. “No foster home. I need to go to the group home. He doesn’t kill people there.”

That’s true, I think. “Do you know why that is, Sarah?”

“Maybe. I think it’s because I don’t care about anyone at the group home. And I think it’s because he knows just living there is bad. I mean, it is—the group home sucks. Girls have been beaten and molested and…” She waves a hand. “You get the idea. I think it’s enough for him that he knows I’m there
because
of him.”

“I see.”

I sit back for a moment, considering. I’m trying to choose my words, which is hard, because I’m really only realizing how I feel about this right now, myself. I love Elaina. And there is Bonnie, who stays at Alan and Elaina’s while I am at work. A not-small, very selfish part of me wants to say:
Yes! I agree! You need to go to a group home. People die around you!

But then I feel a great stubbornness rise up in me at that. The same stubbornness that kept me from moving out of the home I’d been raped in, that my family had died in.

“You can’t give in to fear,” I say to her. “And you’re going to have to accept help from others. This is different than all the other times, Sarah. We know what he is. We believe he exists. And we’re taking steps to protect ourselves and you from him. The man and woman you’re going to live with know what we’re dealing with, and have chosen to take you in anyway. And you’re going to have Kirby to watch over you, don’t forget that.”

Her eyes are downcast. She’s struggling with this.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know, Sarah,” I say, my voice soft. “You’re a child. You came to me and asked for my help. Now you’re getting it.”

She sighs, a long, ragged sigh. Her eyes come back up to meet mine and they look grateful.

“Okay. Are you sure they’ll be safe?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not sure. There’s no way to be one hundred percent certain. I thought my family was safe, but they died anyway. The point isn’t to have a guarantee. It’s to do everything you can, and not let fear run your life.” I point toward the door. “I have a pretty lethal bodyguard out there, and she’s going to go everywhere you do. And I have a team of the best—the absolute best—hunting for The Stranger. That’s all I can offer you.”

“So you know, then? For sure, that he’s real?”

“Yes. One hundred percent.”

The relief runs through her in a full-body shudder, startling me. It resembles the body language of disbelief. I realize there might be some of that mixed in there.

She puts a hand against her forehead. “Wow.” She touches her cheeks with the palms of both hands, like someone trying to hold themselves together. “Wow. Sorry. It’s hard to come to terms with after all this time.”

“I understand.”

She turns to me. “Did you go inside my house?”

“Yes.”

“Did you—” Her face crumples. “Did you see what he
did
?”

She starts to cry. I go over and take her in my arms.

“Did you see what he
did
?”

“I saw,” I say, and stroke her hair.

42

ELAINA HAD COOKED DINNER, AND BONNIE AND I STAYED TO EAT.
Elaina worked her usual magic, turning the dining room into a place of merriment. Alan and I had been somber upon arrival; by the time dessert arrived, we’d laughed more than once and I felt loosened up and happy.

Alan had opted for a final try at chess with Bonnie. I was pretty sure it was going to be a fruitless endeavor. Elaina and I left them to it and worked together in the kitchen, a slow and amiable rinsing of dishes and filling of the dishwasher.

Elaina poured us both a glass of red wine and we sat at the island in the kitchen together and didn’t say anything for a little bit. I heard Alan grumble, and imagined Bonnie smiling in reply.

“Let’s talk about Bonnie’s schooling,” Elaina says, out of the blue. “I have a suggestion.”

“Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

She swirls the wine around in her glass. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Bonnie has to go back to school, Smoky.”

“I know.” I sound, and feel, a little defensive.

“I’m not criticizing. I’m aware of all the circumstances. Bonnie needed time to arrive, to grieve, to normalize a little. You too. I think that time has come and gone, though, and my concern now is that your fear is the real barrier.”

My first instinct is to get angry and deny, deny, deny. But Elaina’s right. It’s been six months. I’ve been a mother before, I know the drill, and yet, in that time, I haven’t gotten immunization records for Bonnie, or found her a dentist, or sent her to school. When I step back from the day-to-day and view it as a whole, I’m dismayed.

I’ve spun a cocoon for Bonnie and me. It’s spacious, it is lit by love, but it has a fatal flaw: Its architecture was inspired by fear. I put a hand to my forehead.

“God. How could I have let this go on so long?”

Elaina shakes her head. “No, no, no. No blame, no shame. We review our faults, we accept the fact of them, we change for the better. That’s called responsibility, and it’s a lot more valuable than beating yourself up. Responsibility is active, it improves things. Blame just makes you feel bad.”

I stare at my friend, dumbfounded as always by her ability to put words to the simple and the true.

“All right,” I manage. “But I have to say, Elaina, I am afraid. God, the thought of her out there in the world…”

She interrupts me. “I’m thinking homeschooling. And I’m thinking that’s something I’d really enjoy doing.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded again. Homeschooling had occurred to me, of course, but I had dismissed it as I had no way to implement it. But Elaina-as-teacher…I realize it’s a perfect solution. It deals with, well,
everything
. Bonnie the inquisitive and Bonnie the mute, equally.

Don’t forget Smoky the fearful and Smoky the neglectful.

“Really? You’d want to do that?”

She smiles. “No, I’d love to do that. I researched it on the Web, and it’s not that hard.” She shrugs. “I love her like I love you, Smoky. You’re both family. Alan and I aren’t going to have children of our own, and that’s okay. It just means I have to find other ways to have children in my life. This is one of those ways.”

“And Sarah?” I ask.

She nods. “And Sarah. This is one of the things I’m good at, Smoky. Dealing with children, with people, who have been hurt. So I want to do that. The same way you want to chase after killers, and probably for the same reasons: because you need to. Because you’re good at it.”

I ponder the echo she gives to my earlier thoughts, and smile at her.

“I think it’s a great idea.”

“Well, good.” She gives me a kind look. “I’m pushing you on this because I know you. As long as you’re not hiding from the truth of things, you won’t let Bonnie down. It’s just not who you are.”

“Thank you.”

It’s all I can think of to say, but I can tell from her smile that she gets it as I meant it.

What about the deception, here? If you go to Quantico, if they aren’t enough to give you the “happiness” you think you need (and how selfish and ungrateful is that, anyway?), then you’ll be taking a child away from Elaina. Elaina, who’s never gotten to be a mom even though you and I both know she’d be better at it than anyone we know, present company included.

Even so, I think, and for now, the voice goes quiet.

We sip our wine and smile as we listen to Alan’s grumbling about being beaten at chess by a girl.

It’s nine-thirty and Bonnie and I are back home, foraging through the kitchen together in search of munchies. She’s let me know that she wants to watch some television, and made it clear that she understands I want to continue reading Sarah’s diary.

I find a jar of olives and Bonnie grabs a bag of Cheetos. We head into the living room and curl into our respective, well-worn spots on the couch. I pop the cap of the olive jar and bite into an olive, feeling the salty taste of it burst into my mouth.

“Did Elaina talk to you?” I ask her, talking around the olive. “About homeschooling?”

She nods.
Yep.

“What do you think about that?”

She smiles and nods.

I think it’s just fine,
she’s saying. I smile.

“Cool. Did she tell you about Sarah too?”

Another nod, more somber this time, layered with meaning. I understand.

“Yeah,” I reply, nodding myself. “She’s in bad shape. How are you with that?”

She waves her hand, a dismissive gesture.

So not a problem it’s not worth asking about,
that wave says.

I’m not selfish,
that wave says.

“Okay,” I say, smiling, hoping the smile shows her that I love her.

My phone rings. I check the caller ID and answer.

“Hello, James.”

“VICAP requests are in. Nothing yet, but maybe by the morning. The program on Michael Kingsley’s computer continues to defy all attempts to unlock it. I’m home, going to reread the diary.”

I fill him in on the day. He’s silent afterward. Thinking.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s all connected somehow. We need to get the information on the grandfather, that case from the seventies, Nicholson.”

“No kidding.”

I look at my trusty notes, reviewing what I’ve written.

I grab the
PERPETRATOR AKA “THE STRANGER”
page.

METHODOLOGY:

I add:

Continues to communicate to us. Communication is in puzzles. Why? Why not just say what he wants to say?

I consider this.

Because he doesn’t want us to understand immediately? To buy time?

Attacked Cathy Jones, but let her live so she could deliver a message.

Took David Nicholson’s daughter hostage for two reasons: so that Nicholson would steer the Langstrom investigation, and so that Nicholson could deliver another message. Risky.

Message from Jones—her badge and the phrase: “Symbols are only symbols.”

Message from Nicholson—“It’s the man behind the symbol, not the symbol, that’s important,” followed by his suicide.

Why did Nicholson have to die? Answer: because his connection goes deeper than the Langstrom investigation. Vengeance.

I reread what I’ve just written.

I’m just spinning my wheels here.

I put the pages aside. They’re not going to help me anymore tonight. I grab the diary pages and get comfortable.

I think, as I start reading, that I’m beginning to understand how Sarah’s story fits into the bigger picture, not for The Stranger, but for her.

She’s telling us what happened to her. That is a microcosm, a way of understanding the story of all those who’ve been ruined and harmed by The Stranger’s actions. If we understand her pain, her story says, then we understand the Russian girl, Cathy Jones, the Nicholsons.

If we cry for her, then we cry for them. And we remember.

I turn the page and continue reading.