Valley of Shadows

by Cooper, Steven

  And he says, “Just a lot on my mind.”

  And she says, “That won’t suffice for an answer.”

  And he can’t shake the images of Jillian Canning’s scarred breasts out of his head, not now, especially not now looking at his wife. It feels like a sign, a malignant sign. But it’s not a sign, it’s just the fucking universe taunting him.

  “My case is on my mind,” he says. “And you. You too.”

  She smiles. It’s a normal smile, but that’s not where his eyes take him. His eyes take him to a pained expression that’s not there, to a smile that’s thin and grim even though it hasn’t surfaced. “The breast center can fit me in tomorrow afternoon at three,” she says. “My second chair can take over for me in court. I need to be there at two-thirty. Can you meet me?”

  He can’t help but do a double take. “You think I wouldn’t? Of course I’ll meet you there.”

  “I don’t know if it’s necessary.”

  “It’s necessary,” he tells her. “In fact, let’s meet here at the house so I can drive you. Sounds like an uncomfortable procedure. I don’t want you driving home yourself.”

  Kelly says that sounds fine. She tells him to meet her at the house at two o’clock. Then she says she’s going to take a bath. He watches as she rises from the table, as she drifts to the sink with her dishes, as she disappears down the hallway. Then he stares at the walls, at the clock on the microwave, then the ceiling. It occurs to him, thank Christ, he has some reading to do to take his mind off the doom staring back at him.

  19

  He’s still reading the following morning at headquarters.

  People live, but you rise. For Glory God made a sacred pact with his chosen followers, and as chosen followers it must be your duty to embody that pact as you practice, as you study, as you sleep, and as you wake. For these pacts inform you, instruct you, inspire and propel you to the very essence of Angelism. For you are on this path. You are rising. There is much to learn as you move down this path from one milestone to another. You are rising. For you are an Angel in training.

  You are not living life, unlike your neighbors, unlike the Others who inhabit the planet. You are not living life. For you are not alive, said the Glory God. You are an Angel rising. And we will teach you. To Glory God!

  Mills closes the book and calls Preston into his office.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” Preston says when he arrives. “No,” Mills says with a jaded laugh. “I was just reading a prayer book from the Church of Angels Rising. The reporter from Channel 4 gave it to me.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not sure. Not yet,” Mills says. “But I was thinking . . . Viveca’s charming son is still in the church.”

  “So?”

  “So, what if she was having second thoughts about the church? We know she changed her will . . .”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Preston tells him.

  “Maybe Bennett Canning is so indoctrinated that he wanted all the money to go to the church, so he tried to off her before the new will became official.”

  Preston shakes his head. “We don’t know yet if it was signed and delivered to the lawyer. We don’t even know if he knew about the first will. And why would he give up hundreds of millions to a church?” “Maybe the money guaranteed him advancement in the church,” Mills surmises.

  “Advancement?”

  “Power. You were there for the show. It was all spectacle. The perfect mix of power and pageantry. Obviously, there’s a hierarchy at that church, and obviously Bennett is climbing. I’m sure he’s angling for a seat on the board of directors. Maybe his mother’s seat.”

  Preston rubs his chin. “And with church power, the money will come anyway,” he says. “I’m sure they’re sitting on hundreds of millions, between the church, the TV and radio network, and all those members sheepishly handing over their hard-earned cash every year.” “And who the fuck knows what they’re doing with it? They’re tax exempt, you know. As a religion!” Mills laughs and sighs. “They don’t fucking file with the IRS!”

  “Which means we can’t exactly get a search warrant for the church’s financial records. If the IRS can’t get at them, we certainly can’t.”

  “Not true, Ken. The IRS issue does not preclude a criminal case and cause to search. But here’s the catch, no judge is going to sign off on a warrant unless we find a stronger connection between Viveca’s murder and the church. Other than the fact that she was a big donor.” Preston pulls his chair closer. “I’m thinking Gleason Norwood was counting on that bounty from the Canning estate. I’m sure it would have bought him five or ten years, maybe more, of zero revenue growth. Like a fucking vacation, Alex.”

  “That’s if he even knew Viveca was bequeathing everything to the church.”

  “You don’t think he knew?”

  “Maybe not,” Mills says. “We can’t assume Viveca told him.”

  “But if your theory is right about Bennett, then Bennett probably told Norwood in the interest of the kid’s own advancement.”

  “But right now we can’t establish that Norwood knew anything about the will,” Mills argues. “So we can only focus on what Bennett knew.”

  Preston levels his eyes at Mills. In them, Mills instantly sees the wisdom. Those eyes tell the story of a career. “Bennett knew. He had to know everything about his mother’s estate. With his sister banished, he was the only one left. Viveca had to have someone in the loop, right?” “I suppose so.”

  “In case something happened to her,” Preston says. “Myers is checking all her emails, right?”

  “Exhaustively.”

  “Tell him to do more than check. Have him open every single attachment Viveca sent to Bennett.”

  “I’m sure he’s doing that.”

  “Be specific with him.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Ken.”

  Preston smiles. “That’s the kindest thing you could say.”

  “Don’t forget to leave me in your will.”

  Preston is about to get up, but stops halfway. “As far as we know, that kid was the only one with access to Viveca Canning’s house.” “But the sister must have access. She said she’d be getting me a book,” Mills says.

  “Before she came to town, Bennett was probably the only one with a key.”

  “As far as we know. We still need to work that. What’s your point?” Preston sits. “How else did he get into Copper Palace that first afternoon if he didn’t have a remote for the residents’ gate?”

  Mills shrugs. “Maybe the guard let him pass considering the circumstances.”

  Preston says he’ll follow up with the guard station. Then he bolts from the office, leaving Mills alone to read more scripture from the Church of Angels Rising. It sounds like a science fiction spaceship that crashed at the box office.

  He’s somewhere in the middle of his read, in a black hole of fantasy warfare, deciphering the “angels” from the “aliens,” wrapping his head around astral palaces and the dungeons of the Inner Core, when he gets an email from Phoebe Canning Bickford:

  Detective Mills:

  Attached is a catalogue shot of the untitled Dali taken from my brother’s house when Viveca died. I’m sorry it has taken so long to get to you, but I’ll have you know that I have done little else with my life but search high and low for an image to send you. After all my efforts, I sure do hope it helps your case. PCB

  He opens the attachment, enlarges the image. He studies it, discerning three stick figures who look like they’re dancing across desert dunes. There’s something about the painting that suggests shifting sands. The hues are golden and clay and blue. An art aficionado he is not. But it’s good to have the image. Mills forwards the picture to his squad. Then he sends a quick email back to PCB, thanking her for her noble efforts. He uses the word noble.

  Central Phoenix Breast Center occupies a modern, three-story building across the street from Phoenix Memorial Hospital. Upon entering the lobby, Mills thi
nks they might have the wrong place. “It looks like a fucking spa,” he says.

  “It’s supposed to. For the calming effect,” Kelly says.

  “It’s working.”

  “Maybe for you,” she groans.

  “You OK?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  They sit by a fountain, among a burst of bromeliads, until a woman with an overcompensating smile calls Kelly back for the procedure. Mills stares at the same magazine article for the entire hour that Kelly is gone. His eyes pace the pages as his feet would pace the floor if he were standing. He’s thinking about everything, taking in nothing; he couldn’t tell you what the article is about. There are words and they seem to be assembled in columns. With a few pictures. Far off in the distance, he sees a door open. It’s the same door he’s been watching for one hour and eleven minutes. But this time he recognizes the woman coming through. He gets up quickly, goes to her, put his arm around her. He says, “You okay?”

  She says, “Yes,” but sounds exhausted. She looks exhausted. Her face is void of color, mostly void of expression.

  “Now what?” he asks.

  “Now we go home.”

  “But what’s next? When do we find out?”

  “They say the report should go to my doctor in a few days and she’ll call me.”

  “In the meantime we worry,” Mills says.

  “In the meantime we focus on our work,” she corrects him.

  “I’m trying to tell you it’s okay not to be brave.”

  She punches him in the arm. “The good thing about being busy is I don’t have to choose to be brave.”

  She has a point, as she always does.

  When Aaliyah Jones returns Gus’s call, he’s mixing a bowl of salad while the meat cooks on the grill, two skewers for himself, two for Ivy. His house is a mess. He hadn’t noticed its descent into madness until now. There are clothes everywhere. Whites, darks, clean, dirty. Everywhere. “Thanks for getting back to me,” Gus tells her. “I was wondering if you got the message.”

  “I got it yesterday, but I was tied up on some things,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. You sounded kind of urgent.”

  “I think you’re in danger.”

  A dead pause. Like a solitary drumbeat. Then, “Because?” “Because of the story you’re working on,” he replies.

  “I know there’s an element of danger. But I’m aware of my surroundings,” she says.

  He closes his eyes for a moment, sees the eyes, the eyes only, of men in masks moving clockwise in his field of vision. “You won’t know until it’s too late.”

  “Know what?” she asks.

  “That they’re after you.”

  “Is this a psychic thing?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “May I swing by after work?” she asks.

  “You may.” The answer seemed to come from the ghost of him. He eats with Ivy. She sits on the floor below him at the small bistro table in the kitchen. The lamb is scrumptious. He can tell by the way she’s lapping it up. Her tongue wags with delight. He understands her satisfaction. He’s enjoying it too. The news is on in the family room, but Gus isn’t really paying attention. He hears a few headlines, but nothing much besides a truck accident on I-10 spilling watermelons or condoms (that’s how poorly he’s listening), a story about how it’s too hot for planes to take off at Sky Harbor, and a break-in at a Scottsdale gallery. Then a commercial for Pampers.

  He quickly cleans up the dinner plates and wipes down the kitchen. Then Gus scoops up the piles of clothes, dumps them all— without any effort to sort—in the laundry room, and closes the door. Aaliyah Jones knocks about fifteen minutes later. They sit in his office.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asks him.

  He beams at her. He can’t help it. “Well, if you back off the story, you lose it. But if you don’t back off, I sense ugliness and danger for you.” “You have a nice smile,” she tells him. “Do you know I have no idea how old you are?”

  “Is that even relevant?” he asks her.

  “Maybe. I’m a reporter, remember. I study people. Not quite like you do, but I study what I see. I look closely but you puzzle me.” “Don’t be puzzled. I’m in my forties.”

  “What’s your secret to aging?”

  He laughs. “I don’t have one,” he says. “I don’t think about it. Maybe that’s the secret.”

  She tucks a leg under the other. “I know you’re dating a rock star.” Her eyes, now, are deep and dark and brooding like grottos where secrets hide. But she’s told him everything. There are no secrets.

  “Yes. I’m dating a musician.”

  “Billie Welch.”

  “Correct.”

  “She’s an icon. A legend.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “She’s lucky.”

  “Thank you,” Gus says. “Now, about your story, and my vibes about you . . .”

  “I’m not afraid,” she preempts him. “I grew up in a tough neighborhood. I was always able to hold my own. And I got out.”

  “Right,” Gus says. “And you’ve accomplished so much. You’ve transcended. And I want you to keep accomplishing. Keep climbing. Keep moving. You are destined for some great things, Aaliyah. But do me a favor. Change your driving habits. Take a different way to and from work every two or three days. Always let someone know where you’re going if you’re leaving the house.”

  She scoffs. “I can’t do that. That’s as bad as being intimidated by street gangs.”

  “Apples and oranges,” Gus says.

  “Look, I gotta go, Gus. I appreciate your support and your concern. I’ll keep it mind, but I don’t intend to be anyone’s prisoner. OK?”

  Gus has a sudden vision of her dancing. It’s just her, alone, on a massive stage, one spotlight on her, the rest a smudge of black. She’s naked, her body taut and long-limbed. Those limbs fly. She’s an acrobat, a dove; she is beauty and he can’t look away. He stands at the side of the stage. She comes at him, glowing in her light. She wraps herself around him. The song is familiar. He knows the melody. She curls into him and their lips graze. He’s in the light. But when he opens his eyes, the woman is gone.

  Kelly hangs up the phone. She’d been talking to a partner in the firm. She turns to Mills and says if the cancer doesn’t kill her, the trial will. He balks at her announcement, but keeps the shuddering to himself. “We don’t know if you have cancer,” he tells his wife.

  “Not the point,” she says.

  “It kind of is, Kelly. Let’s cross that bridge when we get there. OK?” “My point is Trey Robert Shinner is adding years to my age.” “How about your second chair? Can’t he pitch in some more?” “It’s a she. That was her on the phone. She’s doing her part,” Kelly says. “But I think we’re dealing with a problem that no one has really identified throughout Shinner’s many, many run-ins with the law. He has multiple personality disorder.”

  Mills nods thoughtfully and then says, “So how’d you get this diagnosed?”

  “I didn’t,” she replies. “That’s just the thing. No one’s ever diagnosed this guy with anything other than bipolar disorder. He’s been in and out of state institutions, and I can’t believe no one has witnessed what we’ve witnessed. It’s like he goes in, they medicate him, he comes out, he stops taking medication, goes in again. And he’s just a reoccurring patient to them, not someone who they’re making the effort to study.”

  Mills leans on the kitchen counter. She’s sitting opposite him. She had dimmed the lights and the glow is orange and anemic. “And what makes you think your diagnosis is correct?”

  “Honey, he’s a different person every time we see him.”

  “With different names? Does he introduce himself by different names?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Not yet. But his personalities aren’t consistent. It’s like he shows up to court with a different one every day.” “He could be playing you, Kelly.”

  “
One day he acts like an adolescent, other days a grown man. One day he talks like a gang banger, the next day he talks like a college professor.”

  “It’s creeping you out.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s paying his legal fees? You’re not a public defender.”

  “It’s coming out of a trust,” she says. “He inherited a ton of money from his grandparents.”

  “Then why is he holding up bodegas? Stealing cars?”

  “I’m telling you, Alex, he’s possessed.”

  The word chills his blood. That’s exactly the word Jimmy Jimenez used. Possessed. He says no more about Shinner. He gently changes the subject and they have dinner. He kicks her under the table and she laughs. He grabs her chair with his leg and pulls her close. “You’re too good for me,” he says. “You’ve always been too good for me.”

  “Oh, shut up, Alex,” is her response. “Everyone in the world knows that. It’s been translated into sixteen languages.”

  He shuts up. Somewhere else there’s a language for how she’s transformed him. Perhaps it’s in the subtitles of their life, but he thinks it’s even more nuanced than that. He won’t find it in a dictionary or in a classroom. He won’t find it in scripture, especially not the scripture he’s reading now, the dishes cleared, rinsed, and stuffed in the dishwasher, as Kelly soaks in the tub, cleansing the impurities of Trey Robert Shinner and an afternoon of cancer screening from her pores.

  Page 55

  Glory God has selected you to come into the realms. You leave the living world behind when you come into our Home. You are not living here. You are rising. You are not beholden to the living world. You are not beholden to the living. You are not alive like they are. Thou shalt know the borderline between our realms and theirs! Thou shalt study the path! Thou shalt study the realms! Thou shalt worship none other than the one Glory God!

  Page 101

  Come now and sing with the angels. They have risen. Their wings will lift you from one realm to another. Onward and upward. Their voices will give you words for Glory God. In their radiance, you will discover your own hidden powers. In their radiance, they bequeath to you an energy. They will guide you into the light of the final realm.