The Darker Side (13 page)

“I see.” I am not convinced, but I’m willing to accept the possibility that Rosemary’s change had taken. Father Yates is not operating with blinders on, after all.

“There was also the fact that…” He hesitates.

“What?”

“I take confession, of course. I can never tell you what she said, but I can tell you this: She trusted me with the worst parts of herself. She held nothing back.”

I am intrigued.
Way
more than curious. But I know this man will never give up Rosemary’s confidence. I find an unexpected comfort in this certainty.

The roots of the Catholic tree run deep, I muse.

“Is there anything else you can tell me, Father? Anything you think might help?”

“I’m sorry, Agent Barrett. I’m afraid the only thing I can really provide is a memory of Rosemary at her worst and her best.”

I reach into my purse, pull out my card, and give it to him.

“Call me if you think of anything, Father.”

“I promise.” His gaze lingers on mine for a moment. “And what do
you
think about prayer, Agent Barrett?”

I stare at him, caught by surprise. “Personally, I’ve found it to be overrated and the results underwhelming.”

The words snap out, uncensored. I regret their vehemence. I shrug in apology.

“Sorry.”

“Not at all. If you’re mad at God, that means you still believe He exists. I’ll take that for now.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I just mumble, “Thank you, Father,” like a six-year-old and head toward the front doors of the church. Alan and Atkins follow.

Damn those priest eyes. Sometimes the holy really do annoy me.

13

IT’S AFTER EIGHT-THIRTY. ALAN, ATKINS, AND I ARE SEATED
in a booth at the back of a Denny’s. It’s a slow night and our waitress is tired. She manages a halfhearted smile as she tops off our coffee cups but doesn’t try to chat us up. I guess she’s used to serving cops.

Vinyl and formica as far as the eye can see, I muse. Is there anything more American?

Atkins has given us a copy of the case file, replete with crime scene photos. Now that our waitress is at a safe distance, I open it up and examine the photographs.

“Ugly,” I observe.

“But neat,” Atkins replies.

It’s an insightful comment. He’s right. I’m looking at a photograph of Rosemary. She had been a pretty woman. In the photograph she is nude, lying on her back on her bed. Her legs are closed. Her arms rest on her chest. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are opened wide. A line of dried blood runs from her right nostril at an angle, following her cheek to her jawline. It’s a terrible image, but not as terrible as it could be. There’s no evidence of sexual abuse. Other than the blood from her nose and the puncture and bruise on her right side, Rosemary’s body is almost pristine.

“No rage here,” Alan says.

“Yes,” I reply.

Sexual psychopathy is not an act of simple anger. It is an act of violent, mind-bending rage. Penetration is not enough; it’s destruction that is required. I don’t see any of that in these photographs. Sex doesn’t seem to be the motive. I close the file and take a sip from my coffee cup.

“The Crime Scene Unit found nada,” Atkins says.

“I’m not surprised,” I tell him. “This perp is very organized and very experienced. He had a job to do and he did it, no muss no fuss. He got in and got out. You always see less transference in those circumstances.”

“Then how do you catch him?”

Sometimes you don’t,
the cicadas buzz.

“By figuring out why he does what he does. And by hoping, as time goes on, that he’ll slip up and leave us a clue.”

“That’s not real comforting.”

I give him my bleakest smile. “We don’t do comforting in this line of work, Atkins. You know that.”

He returns the smile, just as bleak, and raises his coffee cup in agreement.

ALAN AND I ARE ON
the highway again, headed home. Alan is driving. We had left Atkins with promises, but not much reassurance.

“You want me to take you by my place to get Bonnie?” he asks.

I look at my watch. It’s almost ten-thirty.

“No. Drop me off at home. I’ll come get her tomorrow.”

I consider dialing Callie and James, but realize it’s after 1:00 A.M. where they are. If they are asleep—and I hope they are—I don’t want to wake them.

“Been a pretty crazy few days,” Alan says.

“Sure has.”

He glances at me. “Any insight to offer yet?”

I shake my head. “Not really. I need to get some sleep and let it percolate. There are things that bother me a lot about this one, though.”

“Like?”

“Like I think this perp has been killing for a long time, and I think he’s gotten pretty good at it. I think he’s methodical and organized and that he’s not going to slip up any time soon.”

“He’s already slipped up. He let us know he’s there.”

“True, but that was purposeful. We’re still playing catch-up.”

Alan smiles a faint smile. “You always start out cynical on a case. We still end up getting our guy when it’s all over.”

“Then, by that logic, let me stay pessimistic for now.”

He laughs. My cell phone rings. My heart lifts a little when I see who it is.

Tommy Aguilera has been my boyfriend for a little over two years. Tommy is an ex–Secret Service agent who now does private security and investigation work. I had met him when he was still in the Service. He’d been assigned to guard someone who turned out to be a serial killer. Tommy had found it necessary to shoot the young man at one point and in the ensuing firestorm, my testimony kept him from being hung out to dry. He’d been very grateful and had told me to let him know if I ever needed anything.

He left the Service a few years later. I still don’t know why. He would probably tell me if I asked, but I have never asked, and he has never offered. It’s not that Tommy’s cold, he’s just laconic in extremis.

I had taken him up on his offer of help during a case. He’d come over to my home to sweep for bugs (which he found, along with a GPS tracker on my car). It wasn’t planned, but I ended up kissing him, and he’d surprised me by kissing me back.

My husband had only been dead for six months, my body was scarred, I felt ugly inside and out, and I hurt. Tommy took me in his arms and made me feel desirable again. This was satisfying on levels both spiritual and venal. Tommy is a lovely man; he’s also a hunk and a half.

He’s Latin, with the requisite dark hair, tan skin, and brooding eyes. He is not a pretty boy; he has a scar at his left temple and a strong jawline. He has the rough hands of a construction worker and the body of a dancer. Tommy is a delicious sight when his clothes are off, and sex with him can be rough or gentle or languorous; he’s a sweaty joy beneath the sheets.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey,” he replies. “You still out of town?”

“Nope. I’m heading home right now, as a matter of fact.”

“Want company?”

“Yes, please. Are you up for giving me a foot massage? I need to unwind a little.”

“Sure. See you soon.”

I hang up and find myself humming a little. I stop, mortified, and sneak a glance at Alan. It looks like he has all his attention on the road, but then he speaks.

“That guy seems to make you happy.”

“He’s okay,” I say.

“Hm.”

I look at my friend. “What, ‘hm’?”

“It’s not my business, Smoky, but you might want to consider taking the qualification off that. You deserve to be happy, and he probably deserves to know that he makes you feel that way.”

I am surprised at the sudden surge of annoyance running through me. I feel a retort ready to trip off my tongue, but I manage to choke it back.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” I mumble.

“Hey.” It’s a soft rebuke, like a friendly hand under the chin lifting my reluctant gaze to his. “I’m just talking here. I like seeing you smile over a guy again, that’s all.”

The annoyance vanishes. I sigh.

“Me too, I think.”

14

I TURN THE KNOB AND OPEN THE DOOR AND FIND WHAT I’D
expected: the stillness and quiet of an empty house.

This is the home that Matt and I bought together. It is the home where I learned about being a wife, a mother, and where all of that was lost to me. This is the home where I was destroyed and where I rebuilt myself again.

Three years have passed since my Matt and my Alexa died. I no longer wake up screaming, I no longer stare at my gun in the middle of the night wondering if it would hurt when the bullet took the top of my head off, I no longer walk through my life with my soul in a deep freeze. I have Bonnie now, and Tommy, and of course I have my team. I have learned to start enjoying life again. The cynic in me hesitates to say that life is
good,
but I am allowed to say that life is
better
.

Even so…loss can come at oblique angles. It is the contrasts that still have power.

Matt was a perfect fit for me, for us, for the way our life was. It wasn’t unusual for me to arrive home at nine o’clock in the evening, soul-tired and smelling of the dead. I’d hesitate before opening the door then too. I’d stop, key in the lock, and I’d try to shake off the dark stuff, to make sure I didn’t drag it into the light and love of my home. It didn’t always work, but I always tried.

I’d open the door and all the lights would be on because Matt liked light. He’d usually have the TV going or maybe the stereo because he was comforted by the background noise. The smell of something yummy would be in the air. Matt was a fabulous cook. If there was a cookbook for it, he could make it happen.

He’d always come to greet me when I got home. This is something that never changed, not after years and years and years of marriage. It didn’t matter if we were fighting or loving each other.

Welcome back, traveler,
he’d always say. That was our phrase, as necessary and natural as the sun or the rain.

In the days before Alexa was born, he’d feed me some good food and maybe a small glass of wine and he’d listen to me bitch and moan about my day and then I’d listen to him bitch and moan about his and we might watch some TV together. We’d usually end up having sex before falling asleep. We had a lot of sex in those early times. Good sex, okay sex, even some bad sex (though, as Matt pointed out, there was really no such thing as a bad orgasm).

As the marriage progressed, the frequency of the sex changed, but the great thing about being married to Matt was that the marriage
progressed,
it never
wore on
. We stopped being novelties to each other, but we never really lost our wonder.

Alexa was born and that added a new dimension to coming home. When she was younger, I came to her. As she grew older, she came to me. She picked up her father’s phrase, and I would hear it in stereo sometimes.

Welcome back, traveler, kick off your boots, the weather outside may be fair to partly crappy, but in here it’s all sun all the time.

The cliché becomes a cliché because it was true enough to be repeated often enough: there’s a difference between a house and a home.

Things are not the same now. When I walk in, the lights are off. The place is a little bit chilly. No food smells dancing around. No TV noises, no stereo playing.

The other thing missing is the plants. Matt maintained a small indoor jungle. Me? I am death on plants. I don’t just kill them, they commit suicide in my presence. They slash their little planty wrists the moment they find themselves under my care.

Welcome back, traveler.

But it’s not the same.

I remember what Rosario said to me in the car, about this place being where I had my roots, and I wonder at the truth of that. I’ve moved on, but will I ever really let go of the past, living in this home?

I close the door behind me and move through the living room and into the kitchen, flipping on lights and the TV as I pass. A news anchor chatters away and fills the emptiness a little. I pop some macaroni and cheese into the microwave. This is another difficult area for me—I can’t cook. I could burn water.

I pour myself a glass of wine and grab my mac and cheese when it’s done and I take them with me to the couch. Matt always insisted we eat at the dinner table like a civilized family.

Then change it, dummy. You have Bonnie now. You have Tommy. Start eating at the dinner table. Hell, put the TV on a timer if you like so you have some noise to come home to.

My spirits lift a little. Pragmatism has always been my strength. I like to fix things when they break. Crying in my beer (or wine, as the case may be) goes against my grain. I’ve spent more than enough time weeping in the last few years. Less tears, more sweat. Giddyup.

Good idea, Mrs. Barrett, I say to myself. Hear, hear.

I giggle at this internal interchange. I no longer worry about being crazy because of it. I figure this either means I’ve changed for the better or really
have
gone crazy.

I watch the news as I polish off the pseudo-food. Nothing new; civilization continues to teeter on the precipice, as it has been doing since the reporting of news began. There’s no mention of Lisa Reid yet.

When the knock comes, a tingly little happiness jolts through me. I dump the empty macaroni and cheese container into the trash and find myself hurrying to the door.

I open it and smile at the man in my life. He’s wearing a dark jacket and slacks, and a white shirt with no tie. His hair is a little rumpled, but he looks, as always, like a very edible million bucks.

“Hey,” he says, one word suffused with warmth and backed with a big smile. He’s as happy to see me as I am to see him.

I angle my head up for a kiss and he gives me a long one.

“Welcome back, traveler,” I murmur.

He raises an eyebrow. “I think I should be telling you that.” He smiles. He comes in and flops down on the couch. “You’ve been a busy lady.”

I sit down next to him and put my feet on his lap. It’s an unspoken demand for a massage. Tommy complies, and I almost arch my back as those strong hands begin rubbing the tension away.