Blessed are the Dead (17 page)

 

Chapter 34

I
CLOSE MY
eyes for a moment and visualize that I'm wearing a Teflon vest over my shirt before I pick up the phone at the jail. I try to play it cool. Nothing can touch me.

Today, Johnson's birdlike hands clutch a metal walker when he enters the room. He grimaces as he sits down on the stool across from me. It's been more than a month since Jasmine disappeared. And more than two weeks since they found her little skull.

“So, have I been replaced as the ‘Poster Boy of Evil' yet?” is the first thing he says. He is grinning.

I give a wry smile. He cannot touch me anymore. I will smile at him, talk to him, and convince him we are friends, so he will tell me what happened to Caterina and Jasmine. They deserve that. He deserves to be locked away forever, where he can never hurt another little girl again. They deserve justice—­that is all that is left for them now.

“You should do a story about how they are treating me in here.”

I hope they are beating him and pissing in his food. But I try to keep that out of my voice. “What's going on?”

“The powers that be had the wisdom to house me in a dorm here with 119 other prisoners. Of course, the dorm is full of caped crusaders, wannabe crime fighters. They wait until I'm asleep, then they walk by and throw mustard and fish oil on me.”

He watches me. I keep my expression blank.

“Well, I finally caught one of them.” Then he smiles. “Being the kind, considerate soul that I am, I returned the favor. I waited until he was sleeping, then I pierced the punk's eyeball. Now I get my own room.”

Check. My poker face is gone. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, and I swallow hard.

“I have a hard time believing you did that. If you really did it, why are they giving you privileges like being able to meet with me?”

“Don't believe me then. The reason they are letting me talk to you is because the punk is so scared of me, he refused to narc on me. They know it was me but can't prove it. Nobody is saying anything. Now they are all scared of me. I don't think any of them will try any of that bullshit again.”

I'm so rattled by what he told me, I need to change the subject. His trial for kidnapping is in two months.

“Jack, say you get acquitted—­for whatever reason—­what then?”

“Then I'm gone. I'll be in some little hick town working somewhere or back out on the floating canneries in Alaska, somewhere remote. Probably have to leave the country, even. I won't be able to live a normal life anywhere where this has been publicized.”

“How will you survive?”

“Work is no problem. I can do auto repair. I can chop wood. I can build homes. I can run a line, catch a trout, shoot a deer.”

“What if they find evidence tying you to Jasmine's murder? I'm sure they haven't given up yet.” I say it to get a reaction. It doesn't work.

“They ain't gonna find any evidence. I told you that. But let's just say hypothetically they do. If I'm going to spend the rest of my life in jail, give me some money, and I'll give you a blow-­by-­blow account and confession of everything. If they can get evidence, this is the last fucking rodeo for me.”

I'm tired of his stories. He's had enough fun toying with me. I need some answers.

“You promised me you would tell me about Caterina and Jasmine. It's been nearly six weeks since you said that. I'm sick of waiting. I need to know when that is going to happen.”

“Yes, we need to talk about Caterina.”

“I asked you
when.
When are we going to talk about her?”

His face has that blank expression again, that complete and utter lack of warmth. A black hole lacking any emotion. When he looks at me, it is without recognition. I get the feeling he could be could be talking to the wall. For a moment, he has checked out. Then he comes back. A long blink, then a glint of recognition appears in his eyes again. His left eye wanders.

“Soon. My lawyer is working on something,” he says.

“A plea bargain?” I scoff.

“I didn't say a plea bargain.” He cocks one eyebrow.

I ignore it. I'm not playing his game. The clock is ticking—­the guard will be here any minute.

“You said something about money. If you are locked up, what would you do with all that money anyway?”

“I need surgery. My hip is deteriorating. Now I have to use this thing,” he says, pointing to the walker. “I can barely walk. I can't defend myself in prison with one leg. I need money for an operation. I need money to have things like books and a TV. You can buy all kinds of things in jail. You can buy drugs, sex, cigarettes, protection. Anything you want.”

I check my watch. We're almost out of time. I've saved the best for last. Even if it means he'll never talk to me again, I'm going to say it.

My favorite chess book suggests that maybe the answer to my questions lies in pressing him harder.

“
Psychology cannot be underestimated in studying your opponent and gaining insight into his future moves. For instance, does he appear calm or anxious in reaction to your move? Is there something, some subtle body-­language clue that can give him away? Examine whether he is cautious or carefree in response to your move.
”

I'm sick of pretending to be his friend to get information. Things are different now. I don't need him anymore for a story. Besides, I saw Black leaving the jail when I arrived. Is Johnson talking to other reporters now? Fine. Black can have the goddamn scoop. I just need Johnson to tell me about Caterina. What I've been doing—­playing nice—­is obviously not working. I'm ready to try something different. Let's see how Johnson reacts to what I say this time.

“I've got a theory,” I say, and wait for him to pay attention. He stops and watches me, waiting. “My theory is this: What if, say, just maybe, you read about Jasmine's kidnapping in the paper and decided that would be a good way for you to get attention . . .”

I pause and watch as his eyes narrow dangerously, watching me. His left eye stays steady. I steel my gaze at him, an open challenge in my eyes as I continue. “And, then let's say you try to do it, too—­to kidnap a little girl, but you aren't as smart or clever as the other kidnapper, and you get caught. And then, because you like the attention, you pretend to be this longtime killer, but you're not. You're just a pathetic little man whom nobody likes and no woman in her right mind would sleep with.”

I watch his eyes turn even blacker, and his knuckles holding the phone are white. His other hand is flexing open and closed in his lap. I get the feeling that if he could, he'd smash this window and wrap his clawlike hands around my neck. A shiver of fear runs down my spine, but I also feel exhilaration run through me. That's right, you bastard. Don't underestimate me.

Suddenly, he throws the phone and pushes back his chair. I jump back as the phone hits the glass on the other side a few inches away from my face. My heart is racing, and I'm starting to hyperventilate. He's at the glass door pounding for the guard, just out of my sight. I turn away. I'm afraid to see the look on his face. I stand in the dark near the elevator, pushing the
DOWN
button again and again, afraid to turn, but I can sense his eyes on my back, and I swallow and close my eyes, praying for the doors to the elevator to open. Finally, they do, and I step in and don't turn around until I hear them close behind me.

On the way to my car, I call a low-­level source I have who works in the jail.

“Hey, did you have an inmate get poked in the eye with a pen last week?”

“Yeah, the dude ended up losing his eye.”

 

Chapter 35

T
HE TAVERN NEAR
the jail is dark inside, but one end of the bar has a few empty seats, so I plant myself on a stool and order another vodka. I feel reckless tonight. I recognize that ache, that longing to fill something inside that is empty. I don't have to rush home tonight. Nobody is waiting. I push an image of Donovan down into the dark recess of my mind.

By the time the bartender hands me my vodka, my eyes have adjusted to the dark. At first I imagine I'm seeing things. I haven't seen Donovan for weeks. But there he is—­sitting at the other end of the bar. I become so flustered I knock my glass, spilling a little bit of it. He nods and slightly raises his glass to me before he takes a sip. I wonder if he was also at the jail just now. I can't believe my bad luck. I feel like I accidentally summoned him out of the ether by thinking about him. Out of all the bars in the Bay Area, he has to be at this one, on this night. Unbelievable.

He's with another cop I vaguely recognize. Donovan nods occasionally or responds to what the other cop is saying, but he never takes his eyes off me. Is he going to come over and talk to me or just stare all night? It's unnerving. I'm trying to avoid looking at him when Andy Black appears at my side.

“Hey, Giovanni, what you drinking?”

He had been sitting in one of the booths, he says. I guess I'm not the only reporter who needs a drink after visiting Johnson. For the first time, I really take a good look at Black. He is cute, with his long eyelashes, even if he is the competition. I try to smooth my hair a little and straighten my skirt, but then notice my blouse has wine dribbled down the front.

“So you needed a drink after you talked to him, too?” I ask.

“Nah.” Black takes a big swig. “I needed a drink because he wouldn't talk to me. He keeps denying my requests.”

I'm surprised by this and try not to gloat.

After two more drinks, I'm giggling like a schoolgirl when I happen to glance over at Donovan. He gives a little smirk. Screw him.

Then, I feel Black's hand on my thigh. It is so light, so tentative that at first it feels as if my sweater has slipped off the back of my chair and onto my lap. Then I know. His eyes meet mine, but I turn away. I cup my hands around my glass, which is dripping with condensation and bring it to my lips. I catch sight of my face a few feet away in the bar's long, etched mirror. My cheeks are flushed. In the dim lights reflecting from the bar, my features are soft as if illuminated by candlelight. My lips are parted and wet. My eyes are sparkling. The colorful bottles above the bar seem to shimmer in the light.

Suddenly, I can feel Donovan's eyes on me like laser beams. I only need to turn my head slightly to see him, but I hesitate. I feel like a child caught cutting her hair with scissors. I look over at him for a long moment. He has a question in his eyes. I break my gaze and glance down at the napkin I have wadded into a tight ball in my fist. But then I remember his comment. I wonder what he thinks about this “little newspaper game?” Then I whirl back to Black, tossing my hair as I turn and grab his hand. I can almost feel Donovan's eyes boring into me. Good. Now, he knows there's no chance for us ever.

Without a word, Black scoops up my sweater and bag in one hand and leads me out of the bar into deep darkness where the streetlight has gone out, and the moon has gone behind a cloud. His movements are sure. He presses me against the wall of the building. In one deft move, he grasps both of my hands in one of his and raises my arms above my head, holding my pinned hands as he dips his head. His kisses are demanding. He is anonymous in the dark. He could be anybody. When he pulls back from kissing me for a moment, I can't even make out his features. A shadow kisses me—­a warm, urgent crush of darkness. I'm caught up in the kiss until I realize I'm imagining Donovan's mouth on mine. I pull back and stare right at Black's shadowy face. I feel the rough wall against my back, my head, my legs.

He pulls me back toward him, and I have to catch my breath from the suddenness of his embrace. A thought briefly flitters through my head—­should I stop? My mind says yes. My body says no. I am adrift. I am floating. I am going to ride this current and see where it takes me.

A
FEW HO
URS
later, I'm in Black's bed in San Francisco. It's late, but I'm still awake. The green luminescent numbers on the clock's dial tell me it's two o'clock. I stare at the blinking red light of a smoke alarm. I'm naked. I want my pajamas. Black's breath is heavy with sleep beside me. I can just see a small slice of his smooth chest visible by a shaft of streetlight that seeped in between a sliver in the heavy drapes.

Too late, I realize what a horrible mistake I've made. I thought of Donovan the entire time, and it made me feel emptier than ever. I also realize that what just happened doesn't even begin to fill that hollow inside me—­the one that always surfaces in the deepest of night. Lying in the dark next to Black, I have never felt so alone.

Maybe for a few hours in Black's bed I was able to blot out my dark thoughts. But it was temporary. When I close my eyes, images of two little girls, at first, laughing and running, then screaming in terror, flash on the backs of my closed eyelids.

I make the sign of the cross and scoot closer to Black, placing my arm lightly across his chest and my mouth near his neck before I close my eyes. I'm confused when slow tears form at the corner of my eyelids. I quickly brush them away.
Die before cry.

 

Chapter 36

I
HIDE IN
the back of the church with sunglasses on. Theater-­type lights brightly illuminate the altar in the one-­story wooden church. A few bouquets flank three pictures of Jasmine that are placed on the altar underneath the hanging cross. I can't go examine them because they are right in front of May, who is sitting in a navy blazer diligently taking notes. I want to kick her in the teeth. Black is here, too. But he's sitting right by May, so I can't even say hello to him. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm banned from covering it. I practically begged to be allowed to go. “It's not your story anymore,” Evans told me.

Besides, Black hasn't called me since I stayed over the other night.

Because they are keeping Jasmine's skull for evidence, there can't even be a funeral, so the volunteer searchers finally decided to schedule a memorial ser­vice.

Besides a big front-­page story by May that rehashes everything I've already written, the Jasmine story is in limbo. Police haven't been able to tie anyone to her death yet. Since my last visit, Johnson hasn't approved any of my requests. Maybe his attorney finally tightened the screws. I remember Johnson's saying his attorney had something in the works. Maybe that has something to do with it. I glance around the church. Jasmine's mother and stepdad are no-­shows. Again, I wonder if they moved away. I wouldn't blame them.

From my seat in the back of the church, I spot Donovan sitting with some uniformed officers. I snuck in late, and I plan to sneak out early, so I don't run into him or May. I don't want to see the scorn in his eyes. He's not stupid. He watched me leave with Black. I feel a wave of guilt and fatigue swarm over me. Even if he wanted to patch things up with me, now I've blown it.

The memorial is bleak. Not one single person who knew Jasmine gets up to speak. Did anyone here know her? What about her teacher? A school bus driver? A neighbor? Nobody.

A minister says a few words, but it's not enough.

“Jasmine never had a chance. She was being raised under some tough circumstances and had a lot to deal with in her life, including having lost her father at a young age. Despite this, she tried to make a real home and a real family out of what she was given.”

It is a stark contrast to Caterina's funeral. Hundreds of ­people showed up. Old Italian women dressed in black shawls took turns keening and watching over her tiny casket before the ser­vice. The altar was overflowing with flowers and photographs of my sister. It was all a blur of faces, flowers, and ­people patting me on the head.

A sudden memory makes my heart lurch: a beam of sunlight striking Caterina's small silver casket and blinding me for a moment as it's lowered into the ground. When I next looked, straining to see around through figures in dark clothes above and around me, all that remained was a small mound of earth with the deep blue sky above it. She was gone. The distant buzz of a bumblebee mingled with muffled weeping and sobbing sounds. I lurched and struggled to run to the grave, but my grandmother's tight, dry grasp on my hand turned me toward the car.

My feet dragged behind me, and I kept looking back over my shoulder as my grandmother shushed me. I could see my mother collapse onto the ground, lying flat and grasping at the dirt as ­people pulled her away. I was only six, but I knew what happened after that casket went in the ground. You never saw them again. The dirt was still fresh at the grave beside Caterina's. Only a few days before, I had watched them lower my father's coffin into the ground. When we drove away from the cemetery, all the colors suddenly faded to gray, and a heavy pall settled on my heart. In the deepest night, I can still find it there.