The Last Innocent

by Rebekah Strong

  “Like split personalities,” said Jimmy”

  “Not really.”

  “How is it ‘not really’?”

  “Look at the way we’re raised. It’s ingrained in our culture. We learn it at the same time we get potty trained.”

  Jimmy frowned.

  “As children we're taught to project good and hide bad. Our parents and society both teach us that only certain things are acceptable, and everything else is to be locked away in secrecy. When you were growing up how many times did your mom tell you not to pick your nose or fart in public?”

  “You’re not supposed to fart in public? Owww.” Brett said as Jessica pinched him hard on the thigh.

  “Ok, let’s assume you’re right…” Jimmy began.

  “I am.”

  Jimmy adjusted in his seat to see Tully better, “How do you get to the point where you hide something like that. I mean, how does that work? Is that why people do horrible things? Because they hold it in?”

  “It’s not why they do bad things, kid. Only why it still surprises us.”

  “You’re saying the entire population of earth is capable of murder?” Jimmy looked dubious.

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Abstaining from culturally agreed upon taboos is not deceit. It’s manners. It makes society run smoothly. But everyone burps and farts even if we pretend we don’t. Every now and then the secret is not so harmless, but people still don’t talk about it.”

  Brett, Jessica and Julius nodded in agreement. “Except for Brett’s dick jokes, we don’t talk about it,” said Jessica.

  Everybody sniggered except for Jimmy. Even Pete managed a smile.

  “Picking your nose and farting aren’t murder,” Jimmy sounded desperate now.

  “Murder is a cultural taboo, so yes, they are the same. But that’s not the point. The point is that everybody’s secrets are different. Secrets aren’t always illegal or unethical, we even joke about most of them. I’m saying we’re taught to carve ourselves up into different people. We all have a public and a private face. Neither is a lie just because one is hidden.

  “Shoot, Thomas Edison deep fried the first man put in the electric chair. It was no honest mistake. Not even close. Edison tortured a man to death to discredit the competition. Awful, but it doesn’t negate his contribution to history.”

  “So you’re saying the lie is not telling?”

  “I’m saying there is no lie. Everything is the truth, even if we don’t know about it.”

  Jimmy fell silent for a moment and stared at his drink. He opened his mouth then closed it again. Finally, he found his voice. “That’s what you figured out after ten years on the job?”

  “Don’t worry, kid. Tully makes everything sound depressing.” Julius grinned at her. “It’s not so bad. You just see a different side when you carry a badge. That’s all.”

  “Is it hard to sleep?” Jimmy rubbed his hands over his face and sat back.

  “No,” said Brett.

  “You better start developing some world class denial skills,” added Jess. “In this line of work you have to look at corpses, then go home and sleep like one. For everyone else it’s personal. For us it’s business.”

  “She’s right.” Jules ran his finger around the rim of his drink. “They'll call you cold and callous, but it’s the only way this job doesn’t dismantle you. You’ve got a front row seat to the worst society can dish up, Rookie. You either let it go, or you eat your gun.”

  “If you can’t?”

  “Find another job,” Tully took a sip.

  “Preferably one where your co-workers don’t call you a liar,” Jules winked at her.

  “You losers? You don’t hold anything back. If somethin’s bothering you, you don’t pass up a chance to bitch about it.”

  “Hear, hear,” shouted Bret and Jessica together. They raised their glasses and clinked them together.

  “I’ll drink to bitching.” Brent slurred his words. Then he pointed his glass in Tully’s direction. “And heroes.”

  “Then it’s to you guys.” The table rattled as glasses bounce off and everybody except Jimmy gulped their drink. Jimmy sat quietly.

  “It’s alright, kid.” Tully put her glass down. “You’re gonna love being a cop. Best job in the world.”

  Jimmy gave her a weak smile.

  Five hours later, the group walked out of the pub. This end of River Street stayed quieter than the tourist packed side. At this hour it was deserted. Only two cars and a motorcycle were parked on the street. A few yards past Only's pub, a steep staircase rose to Bay Street cutting through the stone wall.

  “Night.” Bret and Jessica called and walked off. They were holding on to each other, trying to keep from falling as they climbed the stairs.

  Jimmy shook Tully’s hand, but Julius grabbed her in a bear hug, then clapped Pete on the shoulder. Their voices faded as they disappeared down the street.

  Pete and Tully walked in silence toward his motorcycle. Pete looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You alright, Tull?”

  “I’m awesome.” She pulled her leather jacket from under her arm and shrugged it on. When it touched her she winced.

  Pete picked up his helmet and twisted it in his hands. “You were pretty salty in there tonight. Quite the performance.”

  “Why, thank you,” Tully slurred, and did a drunken jig.

  “Even for a delicate treasure like you it was a lot.”

  “Somebody had to hold up your end of the conversation,” she grinned and hiccuped. He didn’t return it. “Is that why you stayed so long? To watch the show?” Tully laughed. "Relax, I was just trying to scare the new kid.”

  “Maybe he should be afraid."

  She squinted at her partner and oldest friend. “Huh?”

  Pete swung his leg over the bike and stared at the gas tank for a moment. “I wonder sometimes, what this job does to us. What it turns us into. Jimmy wasn’t far off base.” Pete’s face darkened as Only shut off the pub lights. “You know, we’re supposed to trust each other…” he trailed off.

  Nope. Not now. Not ever.

  Pete was nudging a conversation they would never have. She prayed it wasn’t the topic she suspected, but it didn’t matter. He might be her best friend but even he couldn’t hear what she was thinking. Especially not him.

  She hiccuped and tapped out another awkward jig. “I do trust you, Easton. I don’t like you very much.” She spun and meant to poke him in the chest but misjudged and rammed her finger into his neck. He grabbed her hand. “Stop it.”

  “Stop it." She mocked him in a whiny voice.

  “God, you’re an asshole when you drink,” said Pete.

  Her fuzzy mind registered that he was sober. Pete could tie one on as well as the next cop. He always drank when they hung out on the weekends he didn’t disappear to hunt. He never got irritated with her then.

  “I didn’t have that much. I’m just a terrible dancer.” Tully was pretty good at pretending to be sober. God knows she’d done it enough. She pulled her shoulders back and smiled to diffuse Pete's aggravation. The conversation was getting away from her.

  “Yes, you did, and you know it,” Pete continued to look annoyed. “Look,” he trailed off as he thought about his next words. Then his eyes widened. His eyes flew to hers. “You’ve been talking to him again, haven’t you?”

  That topic he had no problem bitching about.

  “Pete…”

  “That asshole called you, didn’t he? God. Or did he come over? You always get weird when he tries to get back with you.” Pete gave a bitter bark of a laugh. “He calls and you trip all over yourself to do exactly what he wants. I tell you to stop chasing an armed suspect so you don’t get shot, and you tell me to piss off.”

  “Pete, stop.”

  “No, Meara. I’m not gonna stop. When are you gonna end this shit? How long are you going to let him do this to you?”

  “I…”

  “Tully, if he cared about you, you wo
uldn’t need a Prozac and a fifth of whiskey every time he wants some. That’s not how it works.”

  “It's not that simple,” she replied softly to his tirade.

  “What if I curb stomped the asshole, would that un-complicate things? It’s a good thing you won’t let us meet. If I ever do,” he trailed off.

  “It’s not your responsibility.”

  “You are.” Pete lowered his voice. “I’m your partner. I’d rather you run into the woods alone after a bad guy. At least then you fight back.”

  Tully studied the damp cobblestone under her boots and said nothing.

  “You think I can’t see it, but I do. You don’t have everyone fooled. The people who care about you want to see you happy, not keep you under their thumb. They’re the ones that deserve you, not that ass clown.”

  “You’re dumb.” She tried to joke, but her voice wavered.

  Pete exhaled and looked at the helmet clutched between his hands. “You ever say that to him?”

  Tully’s eyes grew wide, and she looked away.

  Pete tapped both thumbs on the top of his helmet then lifted it to his head. “You need to hear it, and from someone who cares enough to be honest.”

  “You worry too much, Pete.” Pete had no right. Some things were off limits even to him.

  He tugged the chin strap tight. “Somebody’s got to worry about you, Tull.” He kicked his bike to life. “Cause you won’t,” he yelled over the roar. He held out his fist, and she bumped it and he pointed his finger at her as she backed away.

  “Give the girls a kiss for me,” Tully yelled, grateful the roar covered the tremble in her voice.

  The bike lurched into gear. “Wanna ride?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Okay. Night, Tull.”

  “Night.” Tully watched his taillights shrink into the dark then turned and walked. She didn't want to go home yet.

  Soon the cobblestones of River Street gave way to brick, and the briny smell of the river at her feet. The Lowcountry humidity was the salt of the seasons, making everything more than it was. It amplified cold and sweltered every summer. Night gave no relief from its heavy presence.

  Tully stopped and watched a ship glide by on the river. A tug hauled a twelve story, eight-hundred-foot-long container ship toward the Port of Savannah. The ship’s massive engines were quiet; its presence announced only by ripples lapping the half-buried oysters on the mudflats.

  In a few hours this promenade would bustle with tourists, but for now it was quiet. She leaned against the railing and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. Her fingers closed around something hard.

  Tully pulled out a gold medallion hanging at the end of a blue satin noose. It felt heavy in her hand, and she could still feel the suffocating tug around her neck.

  They called her a hero today, but they didn’t know anything. They wouldn’t call her that if they really knew her. Real heroes are strong.

  She had felt like a hero last week, for a few minutes. But if running that jogging trail every day since couldn’t bring the feeling back, a medal would do no better. Let it corrode at the bottom of the river where it belonged. Coiling her arm, she flung it as far as she could over the railing.

  Pain tore down her left arm, and she clutched her shoulder. The barely healed gash throbbed and every muscle ached. Fatigue crushed down on her. Her apartment was five blocks away. It seemed more like five miles.

  She slipped off her jacket so it wouldn’t be ruined, hoping anyone on the old streets at this hour was too drunk to notice a blood-soaked arm.

  Climbing one of the staircases leading to Bay Street, she trudged for several blocks until she reached Forsythe Park. Sprawling Live Oaks lined the border of the city’s centerpiece park; most of them older than the country.

  When she reached Forsythe Park, Tully turned left onto E. Gaston Street. Antebellum row houses flanked the street, their stone staircases curving up to the formal entrances of the decaying grande dames.

  At 309 she stopped and pulled out her keys. She shouldered open an iron gate flapping on its hinges, and entered a narrow tunnel cutting under the house. The gate was never closed. She wasn’t sure the ancient lock worked any more.

  The low vaulted tunnel stretched for sixty feet below 309 before emptying out into a small courtyard lined on three sides by apartment doors. The old carriage house reclaimed for living space.

  Four cheap fixtures hung on the tunnel walls, their gas lantern counterparts long gone. Two of the bulbs worked. Tully ignored the nest of mailboxes and pushed another decrepit gate open into the courtyard.

  An algae covered fountain stood silent in the middle and patches of the starless night peeked through the canopy of oaks and moss. At each of the three apartment doors, another cheap fixture glowed. She headed for the red door marked “C” with her keys ready.

  She went inside and checked the locks behind her. Then she limped into the great room that housed the living, kitchen and dining rooms. In private her limp was more pronounced. No need to hide it here. She unzipped her boots and kicked them off in a corner.

  She opened a cabinet above the stove, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and yanked out the stopper. Another cabinet gave up a highball glass which she filled halfway. She finished it in one gulp and poured another.

  Only then did she look down at her sleeve. Blood had soaked all the way to the hem and smeared onto her bicep. But it wasn't enough to drip.

  Taking her glass, she went to the bedroom. Her jacket and revolver went on the bed, and she walked into the bathroom and put her glass on the vanity top.

  She took her shirt off and threw it into the trash, then her eyes flicked to the mirror. She hated the image that slid in and out of focus.

  The scar had faded over the last twenty years. Now it was barely pinker than the surrounding skin. Her cheek was smooth, but the thin reminder puckered every time she smiled. Soshe tried not to.

  Even her mother couldn’t look at her without glancing down. Every time Alice Meara saw her daughter’s face, she lapsed back into her protective depression.

  Mrs. Delany had called it a thorn in the flesh, like the Apostle Paul had. She never pointed to Tully making herself small in the back of Sunday School. Never said her name. But everyone knew who Mrs. D was talking about. Like so many well-intentioned idiots, she’d tried hard to make a marked up middle schooler feel noble instead of freakish. All she accomplished was making everyone look again.

  It took two decades of denial, but Tully finally realized that fat bitch had been right. Her scar was her cross to carry. Her brutal luck on display. She would never be rid of it or allowed to forget. Every time a stranger’s gaze flicked to her cheek, she looked in that mirror. Every time a child pointed, she looked in that mirror. They wondered. She remembered.

  Clutching the sink to steady herself, she turned on the water and splashed her arm. Watery blood spattered the countertop. She opened the medicine chest and slapped a new bandage on her shoulder not caring that it didn’t fully cover the wound. It was the second time this week she’d popped a stitch. Doc had to keep sewing her up. But she wasn’t going back tonight, not in this condition. She would have to deal with it.

  She tapped two white pills into her palm and looked at them. Even in an alcohol induced haze, she struggled to justify them. They were for pain, she told herself, and her shoulder hurt. And she needed sleep tonight.

  Tully downed them with the rest of her whiskey. Staggering to the couch she lay down and readied herself for a dreamless night. If she was lucky.

  NINE

  Shafts of afternoon sun cast crisp lines between the Buckhead skyscrapers. The tall buildings shaded all but long slivers of yellow. A glimmering modern structure rose in graceful bends as though made from fabric, not steel and glass. A wide veranda stretched around the base of the tall building and tapered to imposing granite stairs.

  Luke stood at the top of the stairs gazing up at the newest expression of power and influence i
n the city. Then strode across the veranda and pushed open the massive glass entry door.

  A few minutes later, he was ushered into a small room behind the receptionist’s desk, separate from the main waiting area of One World, Inc. The private vestibule of the regional vice president.

  Rich cherry paneling covered three walls, and floor to ceiling glass made up the fourth wall. From the 25th floor, Luke had a panoramic view of downtown Atlanta. He watched the cars race like ants along I-75 as the chemical smell of new carpet and paint assaulted his nose.

  He’d sent Thad back to the office. Luke insisted that Thad research the words Sandra found during the autopsy, as though it couldn't wait. Really it was an excuse to get Thad away from this hornet’s nest.

  Thad argued bitterly about leaving. The kid was a good partner and hated the thought of not having Luke’s back. But he lost. The end result of this meeting wasn’t clear, and Luke didn’t want to paint a target on his young partner’s back. Thad’s career was just beginning. Not the time to make enemies with powerful men. That was Luke’s specialty.

  The heavy paneled door behind Luke opened. “Special Agent Marshall.” The voice sounded more accommodating than he expected.

  Luke turned. A middle-aged man with mousy brown hair and the slender physique of a runner advanced with his hand extended. “John Cade,” he introduced himself.

  Luke shook the man’s hand twisting his own slightly to the top. Cade did not resist. “Mr. Cade, I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

  “Not at all. Anything for the FBI,” Cade preened. Luke didn't buy the eagerness.

  Luke followed him into a large office with the same floor to ceiling windows and dark cherry paneling as the vestibule. A sleek desk of steel and wood and a judge's chair sat in front of the window bank. Opposite the windows, custom built-ins housed various ancient-looking artifacts.

  John Cade sat down and gestured for Luke to take one of the tufted leather chairs opposite him. “How can I help you, Agent Marshall?”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “I can't imagine why.”

  “I’m investigating the death of Cecil Twomey.”