The Darker Side

by Cody McFadyen

  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.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Too bad you can’t get frequent flier miles on a private jet. Jesus, that feels good.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  It occurs to me that this is one of the big differences between the relationship I have with Tommy and the one I had with Matt. I didn’t talk with Matt about my cases, not often. I kept that out of my home, away from him and Alexa. Tommy is different. He understands death and murder, and, like me, he’s killed people. I can talk with him about my work and it won’t damage him, because, well, that damage has already been done.

  “Sure,” I say, “as long as you don’t stop giving me those foot orgasms.”

  I give him a lengthy recap of the last day and a half. He listens, nodding at spots, without ever once missing a beat on the massage.

  “Wow,” he says when I’m done. “Complicated.”

  “No kidding.” I count off on my fingers. “Let’s see: I have the transsexual daughter of a congressman—said congressman also happens to be a favored presidential hopeful—murdered mid-flight, pulling me and my team out of our usual jurisdiction and onto a political minefield. I have a born-again ex-addict-hooker-porn girl killed back here. Both of them had crosses stuffed into their bodies by the killer, and the numbers on the crosses are in the one hundreds—which, by the way, I don’t think is symbolic at all. I have no leads to speak of yet. In the middle of it all, Callie is getting married, and James dropped the bombshell that he’s gay.” I run a hand through my hair. “Craziness.” I force a smile. “At least it’s not boring.”

  He smiles back but it’s a smile with a quality to it that I can’t quite place. His massage of my feet has become automatic, almost absentminded.

  Nervous, I realize. Mr. Stoic is nervous.

  I pull my feet away. “Something you want to tell me?”

  Silence. He leans back, looks at the ceiling and sighs. “Yeah.”

  “Well? You’re starting to give me the jitters.”

  He gives me a very, very speculative gaze. It does nothing to alleviate my nervousness.

  “You know that I have a little integrity problem, right?” he asks.

  “Is that a joke? You’re a total Boy Scout. You don’t even curse.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s what I’m talking about. I understand compromise, okay? It’s a part of living, and it’s for sure a part of living with someone. My problem is, when it comes to integrity, I can’t compromise. Not even a little, not ever. It’s created real problems for me in the past. There were times in the Service when people wanted me to see a little more gray, a little less black and white.”

  “I’m sure, but I think that’s a good quality.”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “We’ll see about that. I realized a few days ago that there’s something I need to say to you. That I have to say to you. It might not be the best time to say it, compromise might be the better part of valor, and so on, but—” He shrugs. “It’s a point of integrity.”

  My stomach is a gold-medal gymnast, flip flip flip flip flip.

  “What I said earlier? About making me nervous?” I punch his arm. “We’re heading toward terrified here.”

  “Then I’ll just say it.” He takes a deep breath and looks me right in the eyes. “I’m in love with you, Smoky. I told you a couple years back that I knew it would happen, and that I’d let you know when it did. Well, it has. I’ve fallen in love with you. The moment I was sure, I realized I had to tell you.” Another shrug, a little weaker this time. “One of those integrity things.”

  I am speechless.

  He loves me.

  Wow.

  He loves me?

  Say something, stupid. But try not to say something stupid.

  I clear my throat. It comes out in a stammer. “I—I—wow, I’m not sure what to say.”

  I regret these words the moment they come out. This man, this wonderful man, has just said that he loves me, and that’s the best I can do?

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tommy. I’m sorry. That was lame as lame can be.”

  He amazes me by smiling.

  “Relax. I’m smart enough to understand that you need some time to process this. I’m not insecure enough to need an answer right away. I just had to tell you, had to cross that bridge and burn it behind me. It was time.”

  I look at him and take care to choose the words I’ll say next, because I know what I say next is very, very important. I opt in the end for good old-fashioned bare naked honesty. I grab his hands in mine. I want the contact.

  �
��I do need time. I wish I didn’t, but I do. That doesn’t mean I’m saying I don’t feel the same way. It just means…” I search for the words that fit what I’m feeling. “I’m scared.”

  He brings my hands up to his mouth. He gives each one a soft kiss, two benedictions. His eyes are full of a gentle compassion that I’ve never really seen in him before. I have seen kind Tommy, angry Tommy, thoughtful Tommy, deadly Tommy. This is a new Tommy; understanding and empathy without the sometimes saccharine falseness of sympathy.

  Ahh, I realize, this is loving Tommy.

  “You loved one man, Smoky. You met Matt when you were both still teenagers, and you knew he was the one. You never doubted it, you never wondered about it, you never longed for something else. You lost him because of a tragedy, not by choice. It makes sense that this would knock you for a loop. I can understand you not having an answer right now. I just need you to think about it and figure out what the answer is.”

  The words, their compassion, their complete lack of agenda, are a punch to the gut. They squeeze the breath out of me. A lone tear rolls down the unscarred side of my face. Tommy reaches out a thumb and wipes it away as gently as he can.

  “Don’t cry, baby.”

  He’s never called me that before, baby, never used such a personal term of endearment, and it undoes me for reasons I can’t quite grasp. I have no idea why. I move into his arms and bawl my eyes out against his chest. It’s not a bad grief, there’s no despair in it. It’s a thunderstorm that’s rolled in, clouds that have to cry. I pound against his rocks for a few moments, he takes it, the tears eventually stop and turn into sniffles, he is quiet and strokes my hair. It occurs to me that I could stay right here forever, if this moment was all he wanted from me.

  But there’s the rub. He doesn’t just want this, he wants everything.

  I pull away from him, and wipe my cheeks with the palms of my hands.

  “Where does that leave us in the meantime?” My voice is husky from the tears.

  His eyes are a little bit sad. “We need to spend some time apart. You need to process this and I need to not sleep with you until you do.”

  “What? Why?”

  It’s the question of a child. The truth is, I know why.

  “I can’t sleep with a woman after I’ve told her that I love her until I know she feels the same way. It’s not a punishment or an ultimatum, Smoky. I just can’t be with someone who feels less for me than I feel for her.”

  I stare at him for a long time and then I sigh. “Yeah. I couldn’t be with you either, if the shoe was on the other foot.”

  He leans forward and he takes my face in his hands. They are strong hands, rough hands, soft in places, callused in others. He brings his lips to mine and the kiss is perfection. Deep, passionate, Casablanca all the way. It leaves me breathless and teary-eyed again.

  He stands up.

  “You know where to find me.”

  “Hey, Tommy,” I call after him as he walks toward the door. “That integrity thing? You’re right, it’s a real pisser.”

  No reply.

  “Tommy?”

  He stops, turns his head to look at me.

  “Yeah?”

  I manage a smile.

  “I still think it’s a good quality.”

  He returns the smile, tips an imaginary hat with his fingers, and then he’s gone.

  I am left alone again with all my contrasts. They’re like bats that chuckle as they tangle in my hair. I pull my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around my shins. I rock back and forth.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” The tears are coming again, hot galloping horses behind my eyes.

  And me without any ice cream.

  Hey, that inner voice says, a little sly. You still got some Jose Cuervo hidden away in the upper kitchen cabinet.

  I ignore myself and stick with my most faithful friend: the good cry. AMA—After Matt and Alexa—I’ve spent a lot of time with my good buddy grief. We hang out together for a few minutes, a worthy jag, and then I send him on his way.

  I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling while I sniffle. I feel drained and miserable.

  What is your problem, anyway? Tommy’s a good man. No, scratch that—Tommy is a great man. He’s honest, he’s loyal, he’s sexy as hell, he loves you. Like you have so many other choices?

  But it’s not about Tommy, I know this. It’s not about the present. It’s about the past.

  Sure, there was a time when the idea of being with another man felt like a betrayal of Matt. Matt’s ghost used to be everywhere; here in the living room, standing in the kitchen, lying in bed next to me. But Matt’s just a lovely memory now, not a phantom.

  Besides, I know Matt would want me to be happy again.

  So? Then what?

  Well, there is Bonnie…

  I shake my head.

  No. Don’t you put it on her.

  One of the last holdouts of Bonnie’s childhood is her penchant for Saturday morning cartoons. She never misses them and when Tommy is here, he gets up and they watch them together. I don’t share their love of early mornings, but I have stumbled down the stairs toward the coffeepot on a number of occasions to find them laughing together as horrible things happen to Wile E. Coyote. I don’t know if I would call it a father/daughter bond that they have, not yet, but Bonnie cares for Tommy, and she knows that he cares for her.

  The truth is, I realize, I can’t pin this terror on anyone but myself.

  So why?

  A word bubbles up from the darker parts of me, like brimstone from a crack in the earth.

  Punishment.

  I turn the word over in the mouth of my mind, tasting its bitterness and wondering at the slight hint of terror it seems to bring.

  Punishment? For what?

  You know what. For that unforgivable thing you did after Matt and Alexa died. That thing that no one knows about, not even Callie.

  I clap my hands together. The sound is startling in this quiet house. A rifle crack. I do it again. Crack!

  We’re not thinking about that right now! Not now, maybe not ever. NO way.

  Inner me pauses. I sense sadness now, not slyness.

  Well, fine. But it’s why you’re afraid to love him: you don’t think you have the right to love anybody.

  I have no reply to this; none is needed. Truth tends to get the last word.

  I stand up and head for the kitchen. I need a distraction, now now now. Jose Cuervo will do just fine, thank you.

  I grab the bottle from its hiding place in the upper cabinet and I pour myself a shot. I lift the glass in an angry toast.

  “To the truth that the truth doesn’t always set you free.”

  The tequila goes down like the paint stripper that it is. The heat blossoms in my belly and brings a rush of focus and contentment with it. I put the bottle back and clean the shotglass, making sure to leave no trace of this little secret. I’m too disciplined to be a drunk, but I only drink tequila in such moments of weakness. This never fails to deliver a prick of shame and a need to conceal.

  The bitterness, that jittery taste of terror and dismay, has not been so much expunged as blurred. Its sharp edges are now covered in foam rubber and that’ll work for now.

  “For my next trick,” I mutter, padding back to the living room, “I will turn to my most long-term and beloved addiction.”

  Work.

  Work, work, sweet glorious work. One of the fine things about having a job with real purpose is that you can use it to replace yourself when you need to. That cicada buzz can be seductive as well as stressful.

  I grab the yellow legal pad and pen from the coffee table. I keep this pad there for one of my own rituals. Late at night (like now) when I am alone, I curl my feet under me and try to bring order to the jumble of data in whatever case I’m working on.

  It helps me focus and has led to any number of useful epiphanies over the years. It’s also a pretty good talisman. Scratching away on that yellow pad helps
beat back thoughts I don’t want around.

  There are certain axioms I’ve developed over the years about homicides. Pragmatisms. Insights. I concentrate on these and jot them down to get the wheels turning in their grooves and dispel Tommy and the ghosts he brings.

  The Victim is always everything. Even when the murder is a random event, remember: the thing we choose on the spur of the moment can be the most revealing.

  A killer once told me he chose his strangling victims by watching for the first woman who made eye contact with him. I pointed out that, somehow, these first women were always blonde. He thought about this, laughed, and admitted that his mother had been a blonde. (“Mom was a real cunt,” he had added without prompting.)

  Method tells us what drives him, or what he wants us to think drives him.

  Another killer I caught beat his victims until they had no face. He had been driven by a hatred so intense that it could actually induce a minor fugue state. “A couple times,” he’d told me, “I remember starting to hit a whore, but I don’t remember nothing else till it was over. Which is a real shame. ’Cause honestly, that’s the best part.” He really had been regretful about it.

  Insanity is not the same as stupidity.

  The truth is, they’re all crazy in their own way, but some of them are also brilliant.

  Sex as a component, or the lack thereof, is key when considering motive.

  This last one gets me thinking.

  Both victims we know of—Lisa Reid and Rosemary Sonnenfeld—were murdered but not sexually abused. Lisa was a pre-op transsexual, which in itself points toward a sexual component. Rosemary’s past points to sex as well, and yet he didn’t abuse her.

  I chew on the pen, thinking about this. I come to the same conclusion as I had earlier.

  It’s not about sex for him.

  This is rare. It’s almost always about sex.