by Chelsea Cain
Archie opened his eyes. “Pick it up,” he said.
Henry hit TALK and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he said.
“Hello, dear,” Gretchen said.
Henry thought about hanging up. Just hang up the phone. Wrong number. Stop it now. Tell Archie something, anything, to explain it away. But he couldn’t. Because as much as Archie wanted to catch Gretchen, Henry wanted to catch her more. “How did you get this number?” he asked.
Archie sat up on his elbows in bed.
“Put him on,” Gretchen said.
Henry hated her. He hated himself for not shooting her when he’d had the chance. He hated Archie for giving in to her. He hated the system for not jamming a needle into her arm. “Fuck you, bitch,” Henry said.
“He’ll kill himself, Henry,” Gretchen said. Her voice was reasoned and calm. “He’ll do it slowly with pills. Or he’ll put a gun in his mouth. I’m the only one who can stop him. You know I’m right.”
He did know she was right. He looked at Archie. He was holding out his hand for the phone. His color looked good. He was alert. He looked the best he’d had since he’d been admitted. He looked like he might live.
Henry handed him the phone.
CHAPTER
69
Sorry about the neck, darling,” Gretchen said.
Archie touched the bandage on his throat. “What’s one more scar?” he said.
She paused. “I’m worried about you.”
“Yes,” Archie said, “you’ve always shown such concern for my well-being.”
“Has Debbie left you?” Gretchen asked.
“Yes,” Archie said.
“I don’t want you to die.”
Archie rubbed his face and sighed. “That might not be something you can control.” The plan was to taper him off the painkillers. Then they’d see if his health improved. If it didn’t, he’d need a liver transplant.
“If I hear that you’ve died I’m going to kill the first person I see. The first person I see who reminds me of you. And then the first children I see who remind me of your children.”
She knew exactly how to manipulate him, exactly what to say. He marveled at that. She knew him better than anyone. “You have an interesting response to grief,” he said.
“I’m serious, Archie.”
The thing was, he knew her, too. “It works both ways, sweetheart,” he said. “If I hear about a murder anywhere with anything close to your signature, deal’s off. I’ll use a gun next time.”
“Abstinence then?” she asked.
“Abstinence,” he said.
Henry was leaning close to him, trying to catch every word.
“I like to think of you not being able to end your suffering,” she said.
“I like to think of you not being able to satisfy your bloodlust,” he said.
She laughed. He liked the sound of her laugh. It reminded him of 1940s movie stars. “I enjoyed our romantic getaway,” she said flirtatiously.
Archie glanced at Henry. Henry raised his thick eyebrows.
“If you turn yourself in,” Archie said to Gretchen, “I’ll come and see you every day.”
“Tempting,” Gretchen said. “But it’s too high a price. See you later, darling.”
“See you later,” Archie said.
Archie hit END CALL and held the phone out to Henry.
“Gretchen says hi,” Archie said.
They had moved one of the interns to Parker’s old desk. Parker’s wife had come and packed up all his stuff in a box and taken it away. The flowers were gone. Susan had stolen his Hooters’ mug and it now sat on her desk, filled with pens. She’d finally gotten her mother moved back home from the Arlington. Bliss announced she was pursuing membership, but Susan wasn’t sure how her mother would go over with the Arlington membership committee.
She still hadn’t gotten the Buddha back.
Derek appeared and sat on the edge of Susan’s desk. They were both up for Parker’s job, crime-beat reporter. “I hear they’re running the Molly Palmer story,” he said.
Susan grinned. “The mayor’s confession kind of changed the climate,” she said.
Derek held out his hand. “Parker would be proud,” he said.
Susan took his hand and shook it. “Thanks.”
Derek paused, staring at the ground. “Did you ever wonder why Parker was with Castle that morning?”
“I’m guessing that Castle wanted his side of the story told,” Susan said. “That he offered Parker an exclusive.”
“He was going to scoop you,” Derek said.
Susan reached out and adjusted the Hooters’ mug, so that the owl faced forward. “I know,” she said.
“Doesn’t it piss you off?”
Susan shrugged. “He was a reporter.”
Derek looked at his watch. “Do you want to get a drink?” he asked.
“No,” Susan said.
“Coffee?” Derek asked.
“No,” Susan said.
“Bottled water?” Derek asked.
“No,” Susan said. She tilted her head at Derek. She’d seen herself in the mirror that morning. The bandage, the black eyes. It wasn’t pretty. “I’ll have sex with you,” Susan said. “But I don’t want to get emotionally involved.”
“Okay,” Derek said.
Susan smiled. “Do you have a bed?” she asked, thinking of the hammock.
“Yes,” he said. “And air-conditioning.”
“Wow,” she said.
Forest Park was pretty in the summer. A light breeze tickled the leaves. The creek hummed and churned, birds chirped.
Archie sat on the ground near where they had found Heather Gerber’s corpse. He’d worked tirelessly on that case. His efforts had led to identifying the Beauty Killer’s signature, to the formation of the BK Task Force. Henry had thought it was because Heather was Archie’s first homicide. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t even because Heather was a prostitute and a runaway and there was no one to care but Archie.
It was her ring. It had been embedded in the swollen flesh of her broken hand. A silver Irish Claddagh ring, worn on her right hand with the heart facing outward, away from the body, indicating that she was still looking for love.
He got up, brushed the dirt off his pants, and headed for the car. Henry was waiting in the driver’s seat, listening to the radio.
“You ready?” Henry asked.
Archie strapped on his seat belt as Henry pulled out of the park’s parking lot. He still had pain from his swollen liver, and he was exhausted all the time. But Fergus had him down to five pills a day. “Yep,” he said.
“So,” Henry said. “Have you punished yourself enough for your sins?”
Archie looked at Henry. Henry raised his eyebrows. “How much do you know?” Archie said slowly.
“I let you go,” Henry said. “That night at the Arlington. I figured you’d try some crazy-ass shit plan to catch her, and I let you go because I thought it was our best chance.” He waited. Archie didn’t say anything. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Henry said.
Archie shrugged. “No,” he said.
“Seriously?” Henry said.
“I don’t believe you,” Archie said. “You’d never let me use myself as bait.”
“Yes I would,” Henry said.
“No you wouldn’t.”
“This from a guy who shtooped a serial killer.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”
Henry snorted. “So, twenty-eight days,” he said, changing the subject. “Long time.”
“Will you come and visit me?” Archie asked.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “And Debbie said she’d bring the kids.”
Archie searched for the words to express what he wanted to say. “You know, you can ask Debbie out. If you want to.”
Henry drew back his head and looked at Archie like he was insane. “Why would I do that?” he asked.
Archie shrugged. “You two would b
e good together,” he said.
“I’ve been seeing Claire for the past few months,” Henry said. “We wanted to tell you. But it’s against policy and we weren’t sure what you’d think about it.”
“I thought Claire was gay.”
“Because she has short hair?”
“I guess,” Archie said.
“Progressive.”
“I’m happy for you guys.” Archie thought about Henry’s five marriages. “You’re not going to marry her, are you?”
“I don’t think my last divorce was ever legalized.”
“Nice.” Archie leaned forward and tried the AC. It blasted to life. “You got the AC fixed,” he said.
Henry cleared his throat. “Different car.”
They didn’t mention Gretchen. Archie turned and looked out the window. They were going over the Fremont Bridge. Archie could see Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens, huge on the horizon. The city looked green and beautiful.
Gretchen was smart. She was far away by now.
But Archie wasn’t worried.
He touched his pants pocket where his new cell phone was. It had the same number.
And he knew it was just a matter of time before she called.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my husband, Marc Mohan, and our daughter, Eliza Fantastic Mohan; you are my two guys. Thanks also to my superhero agent, Joy Harris, and her left brain, Adam Reed, at the Joy Harris Literary Agency; Nick Harris at the Rabineau Wachter San-ford & Harris Literary Agency; my editor, Kelley Ragland, and her assistant, Matt Martz; Andrew Martin, George Witte, Sally Richardson, Matt Baldacci, Matthew Shear, Steve Troha, and the talented marketing team and sales force at SMP; my foreign publishers and editors, especially Maria Rejt and Katie James at Pan Macmillan; also Freddy and Pilar DeMann at DeMann Entertainment; Karen Munday at the Portland Audubon Society; Patricia Cain and Philip Miller for their medical expertise; Chuck Palahniuk, Suzy Vitello, and Diana Jordan for helping me unpack my depravity; Lisa Freeman for teaching me how to use a hypodermic (that’s going to come in handy someday, I know it); Barry Johnson and my other friends at The Oregonian; my elementary school librarian and Nancy Drew supplier, the late great Beti McCormick; our contractors, Amy Frye and Eli Lewis, because, after eight months, they are finished, and I miss them; and to every reader who’s ever e-mailed or wrote, especially the ones I never responded to (I meant to, I swear, you have no idea). Special thanks to my friends, who put up with me even though I don’t return calls, don’t e-mail, and almost never leave the house. I am going to name corpses after all of you.
