Red Mist (5 page)

“Well, good for you, still believing in hope,” she says snidely.

“I do.”
But I don’t believe in you,
I think.

I slip the plain white envelope out of my back pocket and slide it across the table to her.
She takes it in small hands with
translucent white skin that pale blue veins show through, and her unpolished nails are pink and clipped short.
When she bows
her head to look at the photograph, I notice the gray in the mousy new growth of her dyed short hair.

“I’m guessing this one was taken in Florida,” she says, as if she’s talking about more than one photograph.
“That might be
a gardenia bush I’m seeing in the background, through the spray of water from the hose he’s using?
Well, hold on.
Hold on
one damn minute.”
She squints at the photo.
“He’s older in this.
It’s more recent, and those little white flowers are meadowsweet.
There’s a lot of meadowsweet around here.
You can’t walk a city block without seeing meadowsweet, and now I’m thinking Savannah.
Not Florida but right here
in Savannah.”
After a pause, she adds in a strained tone, “You happen to know who took this?”

“I don’t know who took it or where,” I reply.

“Well, I want to know who took it.”
Her eyes change.
“If it’s Savannah or somewhere around here, and that’s what it looks
like to me, well, maybe that’s why you’re showing it to me.
To upset me.”

“I have no idea where it was taken or by whom, and I’m not trying to upset you,” I tell her.
“I had the photograph copied
and thought you might like it.”

“Maybe right here.
Jack was here with that car of his and I didn’t know.”
Pain and anger sharpen her tone.
“When I first knew
him, I told him how much he would love Savannah.
What a nice place to live, and I said he should join the Navy so he could
be stationed nearby at the new submarine base they were building at Kings Bay.
You know at heart Jack had a wanderlust, was
someone who should have sailed around to exotic parts of the world or taken up flying and been the next Lindberg.
He should
have joined the Navy and gone around the world on ships or in planes instead of being a doctor to dead people, and I wonder
whose influence that was.”

She glares at me.

“I wonder who the hell took this picture and why I wouldn’t have known he was here if he was,” she says acidly.
“I don’t know
what you think you’re up to, springing something like this on me, making me think he would come here and not try to see me.
Well, I do know, too.”

I wonder where Dawn Kincaid was five years ago, around the time I speculate the photograph was taken, and how often she might
have come to Savannah to see Kathleen, and might Jack have come
here to see Dawn but wasn’t interested in seeing her mother while he was in the area?
Now that I’m confronted with Kathleen
in the flesh, this woman I’d heard so much about but had never met, I seriously doubt Jack was driving his Mustang here or
anywhere to see her as recently as five years ago or even ten years ago.
It’s almost impossible for me to imagine that after
a point he would have loved Kathleen Lawler anymore or bothered with her.
She is remorseless and pitiless, completely lacking
in empathy for anyone, and decades of substance abuse and self-destructive living and incarceration have taken their toll.
She hasn’t been charming or beautiful in a very long time, and that would have mattered to my vain deputy chief.

“I don’t know where the photograph was taken or any of the details,” I repeat.
“It was a photograph in his office, and I thought
you’d like a copy, and this one is yours to keep.
I didn’t always know where he was during the more than twenty years we worked
together on and off.”
I offer an opening for her to give me more information about him.

“Jack, Jack, Jack,” she says and sighs.
“All you did was move.
Here one minute and gone the next, while I stayed in the same
damn black hole.
I’ve been right here in one cell or another most of my life, all because I loved you, Jack.”

She looks at the photograph, then at me, and her eyes are harder than sad.

“I can’t seem to last on the outside for long,” she adds, as if I came here today to learn all about her.
“Like any other
addict who keeps falling off the wagon, only the wagon I fall off of isn’t abstinence.
It’s the wagon of success.
I’ve never
been able to allow myself the success I’m capable of because it’s not in the cards for me to have it.
I set
myself up for failure every time.
It’s what I mean about genetics.
Failure is part of my DNA, what God decided for me and
everyone who comes after me.
I did to Jack what was done to me, but he never blamed me.
He’s dead and I may as well be because
the things that matter in life have a mind of their own.
Both of us victims, maybe victims of the Almighty Himself.

“And Dawn?”
Kathleen goes on.
“Well, I knew she wasn’t right from day one.
She never had a chance.
Born prematurely, a tiny
little thing tethered to lines and leads and tubes in an incubator, or so I was told.
I didn’t see it.
I never held her, and
how’s a little thing like that going to learn to bond with other human beings when she spends the first two months of her
life in a Crock-Pot and Mama’s in the big house?
Then a series of foster families she couldn’t get along with, finally ending
up with a couple in California who got killed in a car wreck, went over a cliff, something tragic like that.
Fortunately for
Dawn, by that point she was already at Stanford on a full scholarship.
Then Harvard, and that’s where she ended.”

Dawn Kincaid was at Berkeley, not Stanford, before transferring to MIT, not Harvard.
But I don’t correct her mother.

“Like me, she had all the possibilities in the world, and her life is over, ended before it began,” Kathleen says.
“No matter
how it turns out in court, just being a suspect is all anyone will remember about her.
Her goose is cooked.
You can’t have
the kind of jobs she did in top secret labs, not if you’ve been a suspect in a crime.”

Dawn Kincaid is more than a suspect.
She’s been indicted on multiple charges, including first-degree murder and attempted
murder.
But I don’t say a word.

“And then what happened to her hand.”
Kathleen holds up her
right hand, her eyes boring into me.
“The kind of technology she’s into, where she has to work with nanotools and whatever
else?
She’s permanently impaired now because of losing a finger and the use of her hand.
Seems like she’s gotten her punishment.
I imagine it must make you feel kind of bad.
Maiming someone.”

Dawn didn’t lose a finger.
She lost the tip of it and suffered tendon damage, and her surgeon thinks she will regain total
functioning of her right hand.
I block out the images as best I can.
The gaping black square where the window had been and
the wind blowing in, and a rapid shifting of the dark, frigid air as something slammed me hard between my shoulder blades.
I remember losing my balance as I wildly swung the metal flashlight and feeling it crack against something solid.
Then the
garage lights were on and Benton was pointing his pistol at a young woman in a big black coat, facedown on the rubber flooring,
bright wet blood drops near the severed tip of an index finger with a white French nail, and near it, the bloody steel knife
that Dawn Kincaid tried to stab into my back.

I felt sticky all over, smelling and tasting blood as if I’d walked through a cloud of it, and I was reminded of accounts
I’ve heard from soldiers in Afghanistan who witnessed a comrade being blown up by an IED.
There one minute.
A red mist the
next.
When Dawn Kincaid’s hand slipped down the razor-sharp blade of that injection knife as it was hissing out compressed
carbon dioxide gas at eight hundred pounds per square inch, I was airbrushed with her blood, and I feel stained by it in places
I can’t reach.
I don’t correct Kathleen Lawler or offer the smallest fact, because I know when I’m being goaded and lied to,
maybe taunted, and my thoughts continue to
go back to what Tara Grimm warned.
Kathleen would feign a disconnection from her daughter when in fact the two of them are
close.

“You seem to have a lot of details,” I remark instead.
“I’m sure the two of you have kept in touch.”

“No way in hell.
I’m not about to keep in touch,” Kathleen says, shaking her head.
“There’s nothing good that would come of
it with all the trouble she’s in.
What I don’t need is any more trouble.
What I know I found out from the news.
We have supervised
access to the Internet in the computer lab, and a selection of periodicals and newspapers in the library.
I was working in
the library before they moved me here.”

“That sounds like a good place for you.”

“Warden Grimm doesn’t think you rehabilitate people by depriving them of information so they live in a news vacuum,” she says,
as if the warden might be listening.
“If we don’t know what’s going on in the world, how can we ever live in it again?
Of
course, this isn’t rehab.”
She indicates Bravo Pod.
“This is a warehouse, a graveyard, a place to rot.”
She doesn’t seem to
care who might be listening now.
“What is it you want to know from me?
You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something.
Doesn’t matter who asked first, supposedly.
That was lawyers, anyway.”
Kathleen stares at me like a snake about to strike.
“I don’t believe you’re simply being nice.”

“I’m wondering when you finally met your daughter for the first time,” I reply.

“She was born April eighteenth, 1979, and the first time I met her she’d just turned twenty-three.”
Kathleen begins to recite
the history as if she’s scripted it in advance, and there’s a chill around
her now, less of an attempt to be friendly.
“I remember it wasn’t long after Nine-Eleven.
January of 2002, and she said the
terrorist attack was partly why she wanted to find me.
That and the death of those people in California who she ended up with
after getting passed around like a hot potato.
Life is short.
Dawn said that a number of times when she was with me the first
time we met, and that she’d been thinking about me for as long as she could remember, wondering who I was and what I looked
like.

“She said she realized she couldn’t have peace until she found her real mother,” Kathleen continues.
“So she found me.
Right
here at GPFW, but not for the offense I’m currently serving time for.
Drug-related charges back then.
I was out for a while
again and then back in again and feeling really low about it, about as much in despair as I’d ever been, because it was so
damn hopeless and unfair.
If you don’t have money for lawyers or aren’t notorious for doing something really horrible, nobody
cares.
You get warehoused, and here I was warehoused again and one day out of the blue, I’ll never forget my surprise, I get
a request that a young lady named Dawn Kincaid wants to come all the way from California to visit me.”

“Did you know that was the name of the daughter you gave up for adoption?”
I’m no longer careful what I ask.

“I had no idea.
Of course, I assumed whoever adopts a baby would give it whatever name they decide on.
I guess the first family
who took Dawn were the Kincaids, whoever they were.”

“Did you name her Dawn, or did they?”

“Of course I didn’t name her.
Like I said, never held her, never saw her.
I was right here when I went into labor prematurely,
right
here at the GPFW in my cell and they rushed me over to Savannah Community Hospital.
After it was over, I was right back in
my cell like it never happened.
It’s not like I got any sort of follow-up.”

“It was your choice to give her up for adoption?”

“What other choice was there?”
she exclaims.
“You give away your children because you’re locked up like an animal and that’s
the way it goes.
Think about the damn circumstances.”

She glares at me, and I say nothing.

“Talk about being conceived in sin and the sins of the parents being passed on,” she says sarcastically.
“It’s a wonder anybody
would want children born under circumstances like that.
What the hell was I supposed to do, give them to Jack?”