Death Row (35 page)

"I-I can ask her, Ray, but-"

"Tell her she can close her eyes when the needle starts to drop. I just want to know she's in the same room. I want to see her. One more time. Before I go. And I'd like you to be there, too."

Ben felt his mouth go dry.

"See, they give me three seats. All the others are reserved for officials and politicians and victims' relatives. Of which there are precious few. But I still get three seats. So I was hoping you'd take one."

"Ray-"

"I know it's a lot to ask. But I feel as if you're my friend, Ben. I mean, it's been a working relationship. You're doing your job." He paused, pursing his lips. "At the same time, I also know you've gone way beyond the norm for me. You've gone the extra mile and then some. I know it's been a good long time since you got paid, but you haven't slacked off a bit."

Ben shrugged. "I just did what any-"

"And I probably shouldn't personalize this, because I know that a lot of it is just that you're a good, generous person. That all-too-rare breed. But I also like to think that-on some level-we're friends." He paused. "And that's why I want you to be there. When it happens. Will you do that for me?"

Never in his life did Ben recall it being so difficult to speak. "If that's what you want, Ray."

"It is. And here's the really horrible part-would you ask Christina if she'll take the third chair? I know it's dreadful, asking another woman to go through that. But I don't know who else to ask."

"What about your parents?"

"Long gone. My conviction killed them. It really did. I used to fantasize about the celebration we'd have when I was released. When my innocence was proven. But they didn't live to see it." His eyes fell. "And now it looks as though I won't, either."

"Friends?"

"After seven years in the pen? I don't know from friends. Long gone. Unless you include my fellow inmates. A cockroach I'm particularly fond of. But they wouldn't be allowed in."

"Ray... I can ask Christina, but I can't guarantee-"

"Sure. I just know that she's worked on this case, too, long and hard, and I appreciate it. I'd like to show my appreciation. And the pathetic truth is-this is the only means left to me. So it's important."

Ben drew up his shoulders. "Then we'll be there," he said, even though he thought it was the most horrible potentiality he had ever contemplated. "Certainly I will be. And I think Christina will be, too."

"And Carrie?"

"I'll ask her."

Ray nodded his head. "If she does refuse, Ben, at least-tell her I love her, okay? Tell her I never stopped loving her. I don't want her to feel guilty. I just want her to know. Okay?"

"I'll tell her," Ben said. His voice was hoarse, and it had a noticeable catch.

"I'm so tired." As his eyes turned downward, Ben sensed that Ray would end it all right then and there if the power were given to him. "So tired."

Ben felt a sharp stinging sensation in his eyes, and he knew if their conversation continued much longer, they would both be crying. "I'd better go now. I've got a lot to do."

Ray nodded, and when his head rose again, he said the three words Ben most dreaded to hear. "See you Monday."

Ben drove all the way back to Tulsa steering with one arm, hugging himself with the other. But he couldn't seem to get warm.

Mike was about ready to scream. He hated paperwork, hated research most of all. And he was buried in it. Was buried and had been buried for more hours than he cared to count. It was a beautiful day out, best in weeks, perfect tennis weather. But instead of being out on the courts or perched on the patio at Crow Creek sipping a tall cool one, he was stuck at a desk piled so high with books that Baxter didn't even see him when she first walked in.

"Can I safely assume these are all poetry books?" Baxter asked, after she finally located him.

Mike gave her a wry look. "Reference books. Of every kind imaginable." It occurred to him that she was looking particularly attractive this morning-not that she had ever not looked attractive. Had she done something to her hair?

Baxter scanned the desktop. "You're trying to trace that key chain, aren't you?"

"You win the Daily Double." Mike lifted a small baggie that held the elusive bit of evidence. "My gut tells me that whoever killed Sheila Knight left this behind. But I can't figure out what it is."

Baxter stared at it, as she had done more or less constantly since they discovered it. "The frustrating thing is, I know I've seen it before."

"I have the same feeling. But I can't remember what it is. I even showed it around the office. And everyone says the same thing. Yeah, that looks familiar. But no one remembers what it is."

"What are those curvy things in the middle? Wings?"

"I thought they were hearts."

"They can't be hearts. They're flat on the bottom. Both of them. And why are they drawn so... wispy?" She dropped it back onto the desk. "It's like a Rorschach test, isn't it?"

"Exactly. When you don't know what it's supposed to be, it looks like everything. Or nothing. That's why I've been poring through every pictorial reference I could lay my hands on. And I've sent Penelope to the library for more. When you don't know what you're looking for-you look at everything."

"Sounds like a needle-haystack deal."

"It is." Mike pushed away from the desk and stretched. "But if I could place that design, I might trace it back to our murderer."

"About that." Baxter suddenly seemed nervous, edgy. "I wanted to thank you. For what you did."

"For what
I
did?" There wasn't much room in the cubicle, especially at present. She was standing barely a foot away. Another time, he might complain about cops who invaded his personal space. But at the moment...

"In Blackwell's office. When you... you know. Stood up for me. I really appreciate it."

Mike waved a hand in the air. "I was just correcting my own mistake. It was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. It was something. A big something. You didn't have to do it. Certainly not the way you did. It..." She began fidgeting with her fingernails. "It meant a lot to me."

Mike shrugged. "Forget about it." Was she wearing some kind of perfume? Because now that he was up close, it seemed as if she was wearing some kind of perfume.

"Can we talk about the other night? The stakeout, I mean. When we were in the car."

"Stop beating yourself up about that, Baxter. We had no way of knowing that some killer would-"

"That's not what I meant." She averted her eyes. "Could we talk about us? What happened." Her hand brushed against her lips.

"Oh. That." Was Penelope messing with the thermostat again? Because it definitely seemed hotter in here. Much hotter than usual. "Sure. If you want to."

"I feel like you've been avoiding me. Ever since we... you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Really."

Mike shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, maybe I have. I didn't mean to. It's just... you know... kind of..."

"Awkward."

"Yeah. Awkward." Now he was fidgeting.

"I've felt the same way. But we can't go on being partners if we can't even look at one another."

"That's true."

"I mean, we've got to finish this case. But after that..."

"Yeah?"

"After that, maybe we should apply for a transfer. I think Blackwell would allow it now. Particularly if we both requested it."

For some reason, Mike couldn't think of anything remotely intelligent to say. "Yeah. I think he probably would."

"If that's what you want."

"Yeah. I mean, right." He looked up. "Is that what you want?"

"I asked you first."

Mike frowned. "Now this is a bit childish."

"I did. I asked you first."

"I asked you second. So?"

Baxter let out a long exhale. "I have another request."

It was amazing what she did with her mouth when she was nervous. That cute little half-pout thing. How had he never noticed that before? "And that is?"

"Don't tell any of the other guys on the force. About what happened. Between us, I mean."

"Of course not. I would never..."

"Stand around in the canteen with the other guys making rude remarks about a female officer? Perish the thought."

Mike tugged at his collar. "I apologized for that."

"Actually, you haven't."

"Well, then I apologize for that. It won't happen again."

"You won't tell anyone?"

His neck stiffened. "What, are you ashamed of it?"

"You know what would happen, if word got around. They'd makes jokes, give me some trashy nickname. Start treating me like I was some kind of tramp."

"We were both there."

"Yeah, but if a woman does it, she's a tramp. If a guy does it, he's Casanova."

Mike took a step toward her. The heat was so intense he felt as if he were standing in the fireplace. "I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you. That's all I wanted," she said, with a note of finality. But she did not step away.

"May I make a request?" Mike asked, inching even closer.

"Fair's fair, I suppose." She was looking up, gazing into his eyes.

"It seems to me... we never actually got to finish that kiss."

"And?"

"If I have to keep quiet and forget it happened, it seems as if I ought to at least get to... finish."

Baxter didn't answer, but she didn't resist, either. Their heads moved closer together...

"Where do you want it?" A new voice emerged from the doorway.

"Penelope!" Both Mike and Baxter jumped backward, like ionized molecules repelling each other. "I didn't... hear you..."

"Am I interrupting something?"

"No!" they both insisted, much too loudly.

"We were just talking about the case," Mike said.

"Yes. The case," Baxter agreed.

Penelope looked at them as if they were wearing their underwear on the outside. "Look, I got those books. You want I should put them on your desk?"

"That would be lovely."

"Fine." She pushed a tall stack back to clear a corner. "And don't forget to go home tonight, Mike. I know how you get when you're on these big research binges."

"I won't."

"Don't forget to eat, either. You want me to send up some sandwiches?"

"I'll manage. Thank you, Penelope." As soon as she left the office, Mike whirled around. "Baxter?"

She was gone.

His enemy had returned.

The one who had taken his life and dirtied it, turned it upside down. The one who had twisted his mind and turned him into something he never wanted to be. Back. Again.

Gabriel Aravena felt his hand shaking as he turned the doorknob and entered his apartment. His neighbor's description of the person who had come by looking for him had not been that specific, but he knew who it was. Some part of him had known it would happen one day. It had happened often enough in his dreams. His nightmares.

What did the visitor want? Whatever it was, it was sure to be evil. Filthy.

Not yet. Please not yet. The old feelings had returned with such power. The bad feelings. The ones he couldn't stop. The ones that rampaged when he saw a small girl with dark eyes, dark coloring. Like Erin Faulkner. Like so many others. That was not what he wanted, was it? He had decided, right? Even without the medication, he was not going to be a monster!

He had never been able to resist this person, and deep down in his heart, he knew this time would be no different. How could it be? The visitor knew so much, so many secrets. How could he resist? Was he stronger now? No, weaker. Barely off the Depo, his body still mutating.

He had to get out, that was all. Run. Go somewhere, do something. He was pretty low on cash just at the moment, but tomorrow was payday. He would go to work at FastTrak, collect his check-and then run.

Just the thought of it filled him with sorrow. He would lose his job. Lose the managerial position he had worked so hard to obtain. He would not see April again. And he had no idea where he would go. But he had to do it. He had to get out, he had to stop the inevitable from happening. Because if he didn't-

Never mind that. He had a plan, a way to prevent himself from turning back, from becoming a monster. And that was something. However feeble it might be, that was something.

He would salvage his life. By running away from it.

"You sure you haven't seen this before?" Mike asked.

"Positive," Chris Hubbard replied. "Sorry. To tell the truth-I don't get out of the lab much these days."

Mike dangled the key chain in front of his face. "And you don't know who it belongs to. Or where it might've come from?"

" 'Fraid not." Hubbard leaned back, propping his elbows against the lab table behind him. The young chemist's face seemed utterly without guile. Mike couldn't imagine that he was lying. "What made you think I might in the first place?"

"Oh, I didn't really. I just hoped. I know this thing is the key. If I could just figure out what it is."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Mike looked up and saw the short stocky form of Dr. Conrad Reynolds. "I'm just having a chat with Mr. Hubbard, here."

"Oh?" He seemed immediately interested. "Has there been a development in the Erin Faulkner case?"

"No. That's why I'm here. I'd like to talk to you later, also."

"About anything in particular?"

"Just general stuff. Since you're the head of the plant, and you knew both Ray Goldman and Frank Faulkner. Just to make sure there isn't anything I've missed."

"I see." Mike watched the man carefully. He seemed a bit thrown, but Mike couldn't imagine why. "I'll be in my office. I've got an appointment." He scurried away, more quickly than seemed natural.