The Guilty Dead

by P. J. Tracy

  He sat down on the bed and met his daughter for the first time, took her in his arms and felt the love in his heart expand infinitely, reaching far beyond the limits of mortal understanding. Then he held them both close, silently communicating everything he’d comprehended and become in the past minute or so. He felt like his life had always been leading up to this perfect moment in an imperfect world.

  CHAPTER

  63

  AN HOUR LATER, Gino walked out of the hospital, as buoyed by joy as he was crushed by despair. The city was in crisis, and in mourning for lost lives and lost innocence. Although the bomb hadn’t been as lethal as initially feared, there were still fatalities and dozens more injured, and this morning’s tragedy hadn’t finished wreaking havoc—it would continue to radiate outward, like a poison cloud, to smother countless more.

  And then there was the bright counterpoint of life ‒ a beautiful new one ‒ and affirmation that Harley, Grace and many others were going to be okay. It was a stubborn, unyielding conundrum that offered no reconciliation of such a stark chasm between dark and light. It was the mysterious yin-yang, the ancient continuum of misery and joy co-existing as reliably as the tides. It didn’t have to make sense, it just was.

  “Detective Rolseth?”

  He closed his eyes when he heard Amanda White’s voice. Of course she was there. Of course she’d found him. He turned around slowly, wondering how he would gather the strength to deal with her invasive presence without losing his mind.

  But when he laid eyes on Amanda White, she seemed like a very different person from the one he’d seen countless other times ‒ the reporter who mercilessly dogged him, dogged Magozzi, hungry for a scrap or a bone that could eventually become a scoop. There was none of the feral energy or aggression in her demeanor that he was so used to, and her eyes were glassy and rimmed in red. “Ms. White. I probably don’t have to say it, but no comment.”

  The pained look his remark elicited made him feel like an A-1 jackass. “I’m not asking for one. I just want to know if they’re okay.”

  “Who?”

  She shook her head in frustration. “I’m not talking to you as a reporter right now, I’m talking to you as somebody who cares. Grace and the baby and Harley. Tell me they’re okay.”

  It took a while, but Gino finally found a smile for her because he believed what she said ‒ he had no reason not to. As much of a nuisance as she could be, she had earned his and Leo’s trust over the past year, had actually become a strange ally in the way cats and dogs might. “They’re all going to be okay. And Grace and Magozzi have a new baby girl.”

  She smiled back. “Out of darkness, let light shine.”

  “That’s a good way of putting it.”

  “I can’t take credit for it, it’s in the Bible. In so many words, at least.”

  “I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

  “When something unimaginable, something horrible, happens, like it did this morning, people either find their religion or lose it.” She held his gaze. “I can’t imagine how August Riskin ties into all this, but I look forward to hearing the story. Thank you for telling me about your friends, Detective. I’m so glad for them. I’m so glad for you all.”

  As she started to walk away, Gino reached out to touch her arm. It was a small gesture, and a strange one he would never be able to explain, but today was unlike any other and a reminder that, without human connection, the world was a pretty bleak and meaningless place. “Do you like Minneapolis, Ms. White?”

  “I love it. I love it more than ever now.”

  Gino shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around at the milling crowds, the film crews and news vans behind barricades, the ambulances still pulling into the emergency entrance. Things would settle eventually, but the ghosts of this day would linger forever. “That’s too bad. When you get your exclusive from us, you’re not going to be here for long. I’d start packing for New York.”

  She gave him a strange look. “You know where to find me when you’re ready.”

  Gino watched her walk away, then looked around, trying to remember where he’d parked the car. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes when he saw an apparition that looked like McLaren and Gloria, rushing toward the hospital entrance hand in hand. He had to get some sleep before he started seeing flying monkeys.

  CHAPTER

  64

  ROSALIE FLINCHED WHEN she heard the knock on the hotel-room door, then let out a shuddering sigh of relief when she heard Uncle Robert’s voice. “Betty? Rosalie?”

  She ran to the door, flung it open, and hugged him. “Oh, thank God you’re all right. We didn’t know what happened to you.”

  “God is exactly who you should thank. I was in church when it happened.”

  She heard a strange squeak behind her and turned to see her mother standing there, weeping for the second time today. Uncle Robert went to her, gathered her in his arms, and held her close as her tiny body shook. “It’ll be okay, Betty,” he soothed her.

  Rosalie wasn’t sure anything was going to be okay, and in her ragged emotional state, it was disconcerting to see her mother in the arms of someone other than her father. Come to think of it, she’d never seen her mother cling to her father like that, not even after Trey died. There had always seemed to be some barrier between them, an invisible morbidity that was a repelling force, she just hadn’t realized it until now. She saw Conrad, standing dutifully in the hall, and gestured him in. “Please, Conrad.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but my place is out here.”

  Zeller turned and shook his head. “Not today, Conrad. Come in.”

  “What about Louise?” Rosalie asked, thinking of the poor woman alone in her giant house while her husband comforted somebody else. “Does she know you’re all right?”

  “I was finally able to get through to her. She wants us to be together, all of us. Pack your things and we’ll go to the house. She’s waiting for us.”

  Betty Norwood nodded and reluctantly peeled away from Robert’s embrace.

  “All of our things?” Rosalie asked.

  “Everything. You’ll be our guests. I don’t want either of you anywhere near downtown.”

  It was strange to walk through the lobby, which was filled with people, but absolutely silent ‒ everybody was held captive by the televisions in the open lobby bar. When someone finally caught sight of the favorite gubernatorial candidate, murmurs started to ripple through the crowd. Uncle Robert did exactly the right thing by joining the somber gathering and speaking with his future constituents, listening to them, reassuring them, offering prayers. It was a demonstration of compassion, strength, and unity during a terrible time and just what a politician should do, but Rosalie still found it distasteful. Then again, she’d always found politics distasteful.

  He finally excused himself and she watched as admiring eyes followed his departure. He’d made a personal connection and they wouldn’t forget it.

  No one seemed to notice the grieving Norwood women or Conrad pushing a large brass luggage trolley out to Uncle Robert’s Town Car. Rosalie wondered how long it would take the city to find some semblance of a normal rhythm again, or if it ever would.

  She stood under the portico and watched mindlessly as Conrad loaded their bags into the trunk. The streets were empty, except for police cars and emergency vehicles; the air was choking and thick with a bitter miasma held close to the ground by humidity; sirens were still wailing in the near distance. A funereal pall had settled over everything and everyone.

  Conrad closed the trunk with a thud and she was startled out of her melancholy trance, suddenly missing her purse. “I’m sorry, Conrad, would you open the trunk again? I forgot my purse.”

  “Of course.” He opened the trunk and gestured. “Which one is it, ma’am?”

  “I can get it, thanks.” She reached into the very back of the trunk and retrieved her purse, then took a seat next to Mom. No one spoke, because what could they say? Car rides were for
small-talk, and that would have been offensive. Any deeper discussion remained bottled up in all of them, waiting for time, distance and a different environment to smooth the raw edges and make what had happened to her father yesterday and to Minneapolis this morning acceptable topics of conversation.

  But the silence in the car was oppressive, the view out of the window depressing, so Rosalie turned inward and distracted herself by rummaging in her purse, getting out her wallet, checking her phone, putting on lip gloss—normal things on a steamy, hot, post-apocalyptic morning, twenty-four hours after her father had been killed.

  It wasn’t until they were halfway to the Zellers’ that she finally depleted all the distractions the purse had to offer, zipped it up, and placed it at her feet. She looked down at her lap and noticed a reddish-brown smudge on her dress where the purse had been resting. She tried to brush it away, but it smeared, leaving an unsightly blotch on the cream silk. Perhaps it was her old-fashioned father sending a message that she should be wearing black.

  Tears burned her eyes. She should be wearing black ‒ her mother was. But this morning’s mayhem had distracted her from her personal loss and she’d given little thought to dressing.

  “What’s wrong, dear?”

  “Everything. Nothing. I just picked up some dirt and I don’t know why it’s making me cry.”

  “Because you’re sad, Rosalie.” She placed a hand on her knee and examined the stain. “It looks like clay. You probably picked it up in Aspen ‒ you know how red the soil can be there.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a package of wet wipes. That was the wonderful thing about mothers’ purses—no matter how many useful things you kept in yours, they always had more. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You should keep these on hand when you travel. They’re meant specifically for clothing and they’ll take out any stain.”

  And there it was ‒ the purest distillation of Betty Norwood: the staunch pragmatist, the quintessential queen of avoidance, staking her claim to a fantasy where the soil in Aspen was somehow important in the face of her husband’s murder and a terrorist attack; where a wet wipe was the panacea to any ill or misfortune.

  Betty Norwood blotted the stain on her daughter’s dress delicately, with motherly care, and just like magic, it started to fade. “See? They work wonders.” She sat back in the seat and looked out of the window. Her job was done. Even though the world, their world, was crumbling, a pricey cream silk dress had been saved.

  Rosalie looked down at the used wipe. She blinked a few times, then stifled the strange sound rising in her throat. That was the funny thing about blood. When it was old or dry, it looked brown. But when it was reconstituted with moisture, it turned red again.

  CHAPTER

  65

  GUS RISKIN HADN’T expected the cops this soon. The optimistic part of him hadn’t expected them at all. He and Ben had bought a rust-eaten pick-up truck for five hundred bucks, ditched the Camry, and were almost halfway to the Canadian border. They blended into the rural landscape perfectly, where battered pick-ups were plentiful, and empty back roads provided safe passage for fugitives.

  He kept his eyes on the side mirror. There must have been a dozen squads trailing a short distance behind, pacing them but not making a move. Their lights were on but the sirens were silent, as if they were all part of a funeral procession.

  It had been a good day so far—maybe the best he’d ever had. He would never be able to describe the thrill of hearing a somber radio announcer talk about the explosion in Minneapolis. Last count, there were five dead, and he knew one of those fatalities would be Robert Zeller—he’d carefully situated the bomb in the ductwork that ran directly behind his office and the man was there at six a.m. seven days a week. He was sorry for the others, but his careful placement had been meant to minimize collateral damage.

  Yes, it had been a good day so far, but good days eventually came to an end. He probably wouldn’t ever see that little place in the desert with the chickens and a dog and a lady friend, but that was okay. He’d made his mark in the world: he’d rebalanced the scales of justice.

  “What should I do?” Ben squeaked, his hands trembling on the steering wheel.

  Gus took a deep, cleansing breath and felt the serenity of accomplishment; the serenity of acceptance. His fight was finished and there was no reason to prolong the inevitable. And Ben was really starting to fall apart. It would be cruel to put him through any more strain.

  “Pull over, Ben, and be calm. Keep your hands on the wheel and do what the cops tell you. Keep that cash if you can. Stuff it in your drawers right now. If they find it, tell them you just sold your car.”

  “But they’ll know that’s a lie,” he blubbered miserably.

  “I really want you to go to school full-time.” He pulled another ten grand out of the duffel and added it to the bundles already on Ben’s lap. “I won’t have any use for this now, so I want you to have it. Do what I said and hide the cash, then slow down, put on your signal, and pull over to the shoulder.”

  Ben obeyed, shoved the cash down the front of his pants, and put on the signal light. “You won’t shoot anybody else, will you?”

  “Nah, no point now. Nice and slow, Ben, that’s right, then stop and put it in park. Remember, keep your hands on the wheel and do exactly what the cops tell you to do.”

  “Wh-what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to be a good citizen and cooperate.”

  CHAPTER

  66

  MAGOZZI WAS WOKEN from a sound sleep by his ringing phone and it took him several seconds to remember where he was—on the sofa in Grace’s hospital room. Earlier, the nurse had taken the sleeping baby to the nursery so mother and daughter could get some rest.

  Childbirth is as much a trauma for the baby as it is for the mother, even more so after a C-section.

  Magozzi had been slightly offended that she hadn’t mentioned anything about dads being traumatized, especially dads who’d seen the mother of their soon-to-be-born baby being taken out of a burning building on a gurney. To make matters worse, she’d then shooed him out of Grace’s bed for the same reason. He had been about to lay the bossy nurse out with a few choice words about ripping a newborn from its mother’s arms and breaking up a family, but before he really stepped in it, he realized the nurse was right. Grace had a lot of healing to do and you couldn’t heal without rest.

  She was snoring softly in bed, which made him smile. Even perfect people snored, which made him feel a little better about being a mere mortal in the presence of a goddess. Her black hair was fanned out on the pillow and her beautiful face, even bruised and battered, was as still and serene as he had ever seen it. The sight was so mesmerizing he almost forgot someone had called.

  Reluctantly, he snuck out of the room, found a seat in one of the dreaded family rooms, and pushed redial.

  Gino answered brightly: “Leo! How goes it?”

  “Terrific. Grace is sleeping and so was I.”

  “Good. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I knew you’d pistol-whip me if I didn’t give you an update.”

  “You’re right. What’s going on?”

  “Let me start you out with a little amuse-bouche ‒ we have a potential new lead from Norwood’s next-door neighbor, who’s a paranoid surveillance nut with twenty-five trail cams covering the outside of his house. He and his wife were in Seattle yesterday, so they missed the canvass, but when he got home, he checked out the footage. One cam has a partial view of the Norwoods’ yard. He says, around eight ten yesterday morning, a car pulled into the driveway. It left fifteen minutes later. That fits the timeline of Norwood’s murder perfectly.”

  Magozzi felt his pulse speed up. “Did he make out the car?”

  “Unfortunately it was an almost non-existent view, obscured by trees, a rose hedge and some pergolas covered with vines. He’s compressing the file and sending it, for what it’s worth. Tommy’s going to try some enhancement. It’s not much, but it’s somethin
g, which is why this was an amuse-bouche.”

  “What’s the main course?”

  “The feds have August Riskin in custody. Caught the bastard on the back roads halfway to Canada. Dahl said he’s toast, but we didn’t hear that from him.”

  Magozzi felt the knots in his shoulders melt a little. “He’s good for the attack?”

  “And then some. I don’t know many details, but from what I do know, we might as well save taxpayer dollars, skip court, and put him right on Death Row.”

  “When do we get a shot at him?”

  “Sooner than you’d think. This big fucking mess is all connected. They know it, and they want what we’ve got. Besides, our buddy Special Agent in Charge Paul Shafer is too political to hamper an investigation into Norwood’s death.”

  “I want a piece of this.”

  “You’ve got way more important things to do than interrogate some scumbag terrorist, Leo.”

  “He almost killed Grace and our baby, Harley, and he did kill a lot of other innocents, and not just in that building. I have to be there. Just hold me back.”

  Gino was quiet for a moment. “I get it. I’ll come pick you up when you’re ready.”

  Magozzi was suddenly struck by the absence of any ambient sound in the background, and he knew damn well City Hall was bedlam right now. “Where are you? There’s no noise.”

  “I’m hiding out in an interrogation room. City Hall is one big staging area, wall-to-wall cops everywhere, and the decibel level around here is somewhere between a fighter-jet launch and a Howitzer. My eardrums were starting to bleed and I sure as hell couldn’t hear myself think, let alone make a phone call.”