The Bishop

by Steven James

  But she couldn’t shake her thoughts of the DVD.

  Why her?

  Why had he snuck into her house?

  She could only guess that it was because they had a history together—she’d been the agent in charge of the task force in North Carolina that had been tracking him when he drove off the cliff. He’d left a body in her trunk then, and now, through the DVD videos, had left a trunk full of figurative bodies.

  All an elaborate, twisted way of showing off.

  How many nights was he there? Standing by your bed, watching you sleep?

  She strode down the hallway of the Capitol toward House Minority Leader Fischer’s office and assured herself that Sevren was dead and he was not coming back. It was over.

  But as she walked, she tried not to think about the one remaining fact that no one was talking about: there was no actual proof Sevren was the one who’d taken the video of her lying asleep in her bed.

  Tessa was finishing with her eyeliner and thinking about what she was going to say to Detective Warren, when Patrick tapped on the bathroom door.

  “Raven, it’s me,” he called. “Almost ready?”

  She could tell he was speaking loudly and she was thankful. She still had hearing loss in her left ear. The doctors weren’t sure whether or not it would be permanent.

  But that was the least of her worries.

  “Just a sec,” she said.

  Too much had happened in the last two weeks, just way too much to deal with—the crime spree, the custody case, her dad’s death.

  The day after Paul was killed, Patrick had tried contacting people who might have known him, but not even his lawyers had a list of his relatives or emergency contacts. In the end, Patrick had arranged for Paul’s body to be flown back to Wyoming and he and Tessa had flown out as well. They buried her dad in a small cemetery near his cabin in the mountains with only a few local townspeople in attendance.

  “Tessa?” Patrick urged from outside the bathroom door. “I told her we’d be there by 2:00.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be right out.”

  Paul had been flawed, yes, but he had loved her and he had come to save her. The vice president’s letter had meant a lot to her.

  Her dad was a hero. Just like Patrick was—two men who were both willing to die for her. And one of them had.

  Because of that, Paul’s death held at least a little meaning.

  However, there was the other matter.

  Since last Friday Patrick had reassured her a hundred times that Sevren’s death was not her fault. “He knew there was no way out and he wanted you to think that you killed him just to make you suffer. I’m the one who shot him. You didn’t kill anyone. Do you understand?”

  She appreciated what Patrick was trying to do, and after a while she’d told him that she understood, but she knew something that he did not.

  She was the one who’d tilted the gun backward, not Sevren Adkins. She was the one who’d pulled the trigger.

  She’d wrapped her right arm across her chest, grabbed her left elbow and shoved the gun back toward Adkins’s face, squeezing the trigger as she did.

  Yes.

  She had.

  She’d stepped into the fracture and been true to her heart and killed the man who’d set her father up to die. She’d taken the life of the man who was about to kill her.

  And she was glad.

  She set the eyeliner down, glanced in the mirror and it reminded her of Belle and the mirror self-recognition test at the primate research center.

  Tessa stared at her reflection. Self-recognition, huh?

  You took a man’s life.

  She didn’t recognize herself at all anymore.

  For a few more moments she stared at her reflection, then she took a deep breath, and joined Patrick to go see the woman who’d shot her dad.

  110

  “So, it’s all here?” Congressman Fischer asked Margaret.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He flipped through the files she’d given him. “Unbelievable. All documented?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave a small sigh. “When I present this to Congress I’m sure we’ll have Rodale’s resignation within a week.” He shook his head. “He was with that Lebreau woman the night Brady tried to kill my brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she helped Brady set it up?”

  “To sway public opinion, yes. Have a pro-death penalty supporter assassinate a popular vice president and you guarantee public opinion will swing your direction, against the death penalty.”

  Which is what happened, actually.

  “Was Rodale involved?” Fischer’s tone had turned dark.

  “I couldn’t find any evidence that he was, and Lebreau is still missing so we can’t ask her.”

  He set down the files, looked at her quizzically. “And how did you find all this out?”

  “I did some checking. I’m pretty good at connecting the dots.”

  He waited.

  “I can’t reveal my sources at the moment, sir, but if need be, I will. I’m sure you can respect that. One question—do you know why Chelsea Traye and Sevren Adkins targeted your family in this crime spree?”

  He shook his head. “The two bills I’m sponsoring, I’d guess. The killers were trying to make a statement.”

  It wasn’t clear to Margaret what that statement might be. “So, are you going to pull support for the in-vitro testing bill?” In her research over the last week she hadn’t found any evidence that Fischer had acted unethically. It was all Rodale. From the start he’d been using Fischer to promote the legislation and the research that would lead to breakthroughs that would make him rich.

  “No.” He shook his head. “In fact, I’m more committed to it now than ever.”

  “Because of your daughter’s death.”

  “Yes. Anything we can do to stop other psychopaths before they slaughter more innocent girls like Mollie. We’re going to pass this legislation and get the Gunderson Foundation their funding. I don’t care anymore if people find out I’ve been contributing to them. It’s time this issue reached the public forum. From the start I’ve just wanted less crime, fewer people suffering. And you can be sure that now I’m going to see that happen.”

  “But cutting down on the number of criminals by aborting more babies?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Terminate a life because someday the person might turn violent?” She could tell her tone had turned curt. “That doesn’t make any sense, Congressman. Let them be born. Teach them. Help them. We have the ability to rise above our instincts. To choose.”

  “The jury’s still out on that. Let’s see where the research leads.” It was clear he was done discussing the matter. “I’ll put in a good word for you in the Senate. They’ll need someone sharp to fill Rodale’s post. You’d be a good Director, Ms. Wellington.”

  But she was still thinking about the social implications of the policies he was promoting, still troubled by them.

  He led her to the door. “By the way, have you ever thought about running for Congress?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “I won’t be holding this office forever, you know.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Well, good day, Ms. Wellington.”

  “Good day, Congressman.”

  Chelsea was in prison, but to avoid the death sentence she had told the authorities about all the goldfish in the freezer. Even now, their cases were being reviewed, their sentences revoked.

  But she was not concerned about that. She was thinking about her baby.

  Once born, the child would be allowed to stay with her in prison for perhaps the first year. And all that while, she would be planning her escape so that she would be free to raise her baby by herself.

  Free.

  Free.

  Free.

  Just the two of them.

  No one was going to take her baby away from her.

&nb
sp; She patted her stomach as she stared out the bars of her cell. “I will be strong enough,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  Tessa still hadn’t indicated to me what she was going to say to Cheyenne, and now that we were on our way up the front steps of her apartment I felt I needed to bring up the issue. Before I rang the doorbell I said, “She feels really badly.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to say to her?”

  “It depends.”

  “On?”

  Tessa looked at me. “On what she says to me.”

  “Tessa—”

  “She killed my dad, Patrick. I know it was an accident, but that doesn’t make him any less dead.”

  “I know you’re feeling angry, okay? Hurt. But you can’t give in to all that. This is one time you need to be true to something bigger than your heart. Whatever else might make us different from animals—we can acknowledge people’s mistakes and we can forgive. We can learn to love again.”

  She stared at me. “Did you just make that up or did you prepare it beforehand?”

  I was quiet for a moment. “Okay, I worked on it for a while, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Sevren is gone. He only wins if we let anger swallow us up.”

  “Anger, huh?” She paused. “What about the promise you made to Grant Sikora? That you wouldn’t let Basque kill again?”

  Time to listen to your own advice, Pat.

  “I’m starting to think that it isn’t our job to punish people for things they haven’t done. Justice shouldn’t try to predict the future, just judge the past.”

  But he’s guilty, Pat. He’s—

  Tessa looked at me with surprise.

  “What?”

  “It’s just, I don’t know, for a minute there you sounded wise.”

  “I won’t let it happen again.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  The door opened and Cheyenne greeted us. She looked well-rested and in good health, certainly not like someone who’d been in intensive care just four days ago.

  However, as she took a step aside so we could enter, she winced.

  “You can sit back down,” Tessa told her. “Seriously.”

  “Maybe that’s a good idea,” I said.

  But Cheyenne shook her head, said to Tessa, “Come here.”

  For a moment no one moved, then Tessa walked toward her slowly.

  Cheyenne took her in her arms and held her and told her in a heartbreaking way how sorry, so sorry, she was. From where I stood I couldn’t see Tessa’s face, but her shoulders began to tremble slightly and I heard her start to cry.

  For a moment I hesitated, wondering if there was something I should say, but finally, I joined them and held them both and didn’t say anything at all.

  And that was much better.

  EPILOGUE

  After a few minutes, Tessa stepped back, wiped away a smudge of tears, and said to her stepdad, “It’d be nice if we could maybe be alone for awhile. Detective Warren and I.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll bring her home,” Detective Warren offered.

  “You’re good to drive?”

  “I drove home from the hospital. I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” He looked at them awkwardly for a moment. “Have a good talk. I’ll see you both soon.”

  “Yeah,” Tessa replied, and at last he made his way outside. Detective Warren invited Tessa on a walk to the Potomac. “It’s only about a half mile away,” she said.

  Tessa noticed her copy of Jekyll and Hyde on the end table. Above it hung a crucifix. “You probably shouldn’t be walking around.”

  “I’m fine.” Detective Warren gestured toward a table where a chessboard and a small leather bag that presumably held chess pieces lay. “We can talk while we play.” She picked up the book and chess set. “I’ve been lying on my back for a week; I need to move. We’re going on a walk.”

  I was almost to my house when my phone rang. I answered.

  Ralph.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How did the meeting go with Cheyenne and Tessa?”

  “There’s a lot of healing that needs to happen. But I think things will work out.”

  “You still at Cheyenne’s place?”

  “No. They wanted some privacy.”

  “Good, because I’ve got some bad news. Renée Lebreau is dead. I need you to get over here, right away.”

  Tessa could tell that Detective Warren was still in pain so she slowed her stride.

  “You don’t know how many times I’ve gone over that night in my mind,” Cheyenne said with deep regret in every word. “Playing through everything, wishing I could make things turn out differently.”

  “Me too.”

  It was a long time before either of them spoke again. They’d almost made it to the river. Detective Warren held up the book. “I think I know why you wanted me to read this story.”

  “Why?”

  She flipped to a bookmarked page and then read the words of Dr. Jekyll:

  I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both . . . .

  It was the curse of mankind that these incongruous faggots were thus bound together—that in the agonised womb of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling. How then were they dissociated?

  “They’re not,” Detective Warren said. “Not dissociated. That’s the difference between us and animals. The incongruities. The ‘thorough and primitive duality.’”

  Tessa thought about that.

  The shell of good . . . the fractures . . .

  They walked in silence for a few moments until they made it to the trail along the Potomac. Detective Warren motioned to a picnic table.

  As they were setting up the board, Tessa was thinking about the last ten days, and when she picked up her bishop she said softly, “I forgot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way it moves.”

  Detective Warren looked at her curiously.

  “Back when everything happened, on that night, I was thinking about how we shift from black to white just like chess pieces do.” She gestured toward her pieces. “But I forgot about the bishop.”

  It took Detective Warren only a few seconds to make the connection. “It’s the only piece that stays on its color the whole game. No incongruities.”

  Tessa set the bishop on the black square beside her queen. Remembering Sevren Adkins, how dark, how evil, how stained his soul was, Tessa asked, “Did you ever meet one? I mean a person who never changed colors at all? Who had no duality?”

  Detective Warren reflected on the question for a moment. “Just one.”

  Tessa figured she was talking about the killer in Denver, Giovanni, who’d been the reason EAD Wellington had allowed her into the National Academy program—to help give her some distance from Denver, from the case. “Giovanni?” Tessa said.

  But Cheyenne shook her head. “No. A carpenter. From Nazareth.” Considering the detective’s faith, the answer didn’t really surprise Tessa. She was quiet. “Yeah,” she said at last. “My mom met him too. Before she died.”

  Darkness and light.

  Back and forth.

  Every move of the game.

  You killed a man.

  The thorough and primitive duality.

  Tessa stared at the board. The white pieces in front of her, the black pieces in front of Detective Warren.

  “White starts,” Cheyenne said, stating what they both already knew. “It’s your move.”

  Yes, it is.

  It’s your move.

  Trying to turn from the fractures she’d seen all too clearly in herself, Tessa reached for her king’s pawn to begin the game.

  Ralph met me at the door to the condo where, apparently, Professor Lebreau had been staying. His words were tight with anger. “It
was Basque.”

  “Confirmed?” I stepped inside.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s confirmed.” He turned his head to the side, revealing a massive contusion. Most people would have been flat on their backs in a hospital bed.

  “Are you all right?” No one beats Ralph in a fight!

  “They had baseball bats.”

  “They?” I thought again of the unidentified DNA at the crime scenes thirteen years ago.

  An accomplice?

  “I recognized Basque,” Ralph said, “but it was too dark to see the other guy’s face.” He shook his head, obviously frustrated with himself for not taking out both baseball bat-wielding assailants. “The second guy got me from behind. At least I managed to break Basque’s arm. Fast and clean. But they both got away.”

  So Basque was back and he had a partner.

  Perfect.

  I was observing the evidence of the fight in the living room. Overturned furniture. Blood spatter. Broken lamps.

  Dozens of handwritten letters were scattered across the floor, each signed “Love, Richard” and I remembered what Ralph had told me about how quickly Renée went through boyfriends. The pieces began to fall into place. “He seduced her?” I said. “From prison? Is that it?”

  “Yeah.” Ralph motioned toward the letters. “He wrote to her for over a year. She found the evidence to help get him free. Then he turned on her.” Apparently Basque’s conveniently timed conversion in prison hadn’t changed his true nature one bit.

  “Do we know if she faked the DNA evidence to get him released?”

  “Believe me, we’re looking into it.”

  I wondered how Rodale fit in with all of this—if he did at all.

  Ralph gestured toward the kitchen. “Renée’s in there. Or at least most of her is.”

  Lien-hua emerged from the doorway and I was glad when Ralph went on ahead to let us talk for a second. She’d spent a lot of time with Cheyenne over the last week, helping her recover, and we’d put our relationship on hold for the time being. “Cheyenne likes you,” Lien-hua had told me. “It’s obvious. But she has enough to recover from right now. I don’t want to hurt her any worse.”