The Roses of May

by Dot Hutchison

Brandon Eddison, though, has something Mum does not: a gaping, bleeding wound named Faith. He may look for her in the face of every blonde almost-thirty he comes across, but he still thinks of her as that little girl with pigtails and a gap-toothed grin, the adorable little geek who never saw a difference between princesses and superheroes. Until—unless—they find her, that wound will never heal.

  That’s where I live, I think, all the bits of me wrapped around that terribly fragile heart. I protect the rest of him from that ulcer, but I make it bleed, too, close and not close enough. A hard enough hit against me will shatter what’s left of Faith.

  I wouldn’t hurt Eddison for anything, but I can’t live the life Inara’s showing me. I need justice, not the hope of it, but more than that, I need all of this to just finally be done.

  “So you’ll talk to Archer in the morning?”

  I nod.

  “Be sure about this, Priya-love,” Mum says gravely. “If at any point you’re unsure, back away. We can still give him to the FBI.”

  “I know.”

  Late the next morning, when I come downstairs after getting the day’s schoolwork out of the way, Archer is sitting on the couch with the components of one of the cameras spread over the coffee table. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he greets.

  “School, not sleep.” I head into the kitchen to throw together a smoothie for a belated breakfast.

  He follows me in. “You have any plans for the day?”

  I pretend to consider it. “Is it okay to go to chess?”

  “As long as you don’t go off without me.”

  Pouring the smoothie into a pair of travel mugs, I hand him one and toast him with the other. “I’ll get my purse.”

  His eyes move constantly as we walk. His car is in the driveway, but I miss the walk and he gives in. The extra time to gather my thoughts certainly doesn’t hurt. It’s interesting to see Archer note and catalogue everything around us.

  “How much freedom of movement is implied in this protection thing?” I ask once we pass the gas station. “Like, as long as I have you or Sterling with me, are field trips okay?”

  He gives me a sideways look, reassuringly curious. “Got something in mind?”

  I pull the Shiloh Chapel postcard from my purse and hold it out for him. “I have a thing for windows. Or, more accurately, my sister had a thing for windows, and I have a thing for Chavi having a thing for windows.”

  “Convoluted much?”

  “Eh. Anyway, Saturday is my birthday, and Mum and I were going to go.”

  “Were?”

  “She has to work. Now that the transition is finally approaching, the branch HR director in Paris is getting nervous. I really want to get pictures of the chapel before we leave, and under normal circumstances I’d just take Mum to work and drive down on my own.”

  “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

  “That’s why I said the under-normal-circumstances bit. Keep up, Archer.”

  He barks a laugh, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “So you want me to drive you an hour away so you can take pictures of windows.”

  Reaching back into my purse, I bring out my secret weapon: my favorite photos from the box under my bed labeled simply Chavi at Church. On top is the one I love more than anything. It was taken in one of the bigger Catholic churches in Boston, with soaring ceilings that gave the impression of weightlessness, like everything inside it was just floating in the vastness of space. Chavi had already been sitting for a couple of hours in the main aisle, sketching intently, and I’d taken dozens of pictures of her and the interior and the windows from nearly every angle.

  But I went up to the choir loft, leaning over the edge of the front protrusion where the choir leader was supposed to stand, and got her standing in silhouette in front of the blazing window, dust sparking gold like a halo around her. If the senior picture was Chavi’s personality, this one was her soul, bright and full of wonder.

  “Chavi was always trying to capture it on paper,” I say quietly, a little pained at using her memory to manipulate. Soldier on, Priya. “That sense of color, you know, the saturation and the way the light filtered through. Sometimes I feel like if I keep taking pictures of amazing windows, she gets to see them too.”

  He flips through the rest of the photos, a wonderfully complicated look on his face. Complicated is good. Complicated means his thoughts are going exactly where I’d hoped they’d go. We’re in sight of the chess pavilion before he finally answers. “Sure, we can go. I mean, it’s your birthday.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, that is what you just told me,” he deflects, and laughs when I swat his arm. “It’s for your sister.”

  “Thank you so, so much.” I take the stack of photos back and put them away in the outer pocket of the purse. “I promise to stay at chess if you’d rather wait in the café.” At his hesitation, I cock an eyebrow. “Whoever this bastard is, he’s not about to jump out at me in the middle of a group.”

  “Fine, but you have one of them walk you inside to meet me when you’re done.”

  “Deal.”

  He is going to get in so much trouble when he leaves me alone at the chapel. I hope he learns from it, that he lets it make him a better agent. Maybe then I won’t have to feel so guilty.

  Gunny’s awake when I step onto the chess island, smiling at me across his game with Jorge. I smile back, something soft and warm that may only be for Gunny, really, because it doesn’t feel like there are any sharp edges to it.

  If there’s anything I’ve learned from the work functions Mum occasionally takes me to, it’s how to look for the transitions in conversations and gently nudge them in a direction I want them to go. Mum is disgustingly brilliant at it. So while I play a shaky-eyed Yelp, letting him take as much time as he needs to make a decision about each move because his ghosts make him second- and third- and fourth-guess himself, I listen to the idle chatter about doctor appointments and movies and goddamn idiots who don’t know how to fucking drive, and then Pierce mentions that his sister wants him to come celebrate May Day with the family.

  “One of her grandkids hoards these stupid little fireworks, those poppers, you know? Make a lot of noise but not a lot of flash? Even when I go in expecting it, I just . . .” He trails off, staring morosely at his board with Corgi.

  “Take this one with you,” Happy suggests, nudging Corgi with an elbow. Liquid splashes up against the side of his foam cup, and I think we’re all politely pretending we don’t know there’s almost as much whiskey as coffee in there. “His ugly mug will give you more nightmares than the noise.”

  “You don’t even know how ugly you are, you stupid bastard, you can’t keep a mirror whole,” Corgi replies contentedly.

  Male friendship is so strange.

  “Anyone else have plans for the weekend?” I ask, moving my rook out of immediate danger.

  Yelp has a visit with his daughters. He only gets to see them once a month, because the custody agreement was made when he was having a very difficult time and he doesn’t feel he’s at the point to safely change it yet. His face softens when he talks about them, and the trembling in his hand eases a little. They could help him a great deal, I think, but he won’t ever put the burden on them of seeing his bad days.

  Steven, it turns out, has a date, and most of the table starts ribbing him about it. He accepts it all with a goofy smile. “She’s a Marine widow,” he explains. “She knows what it’s like.”

  Gunny is going up to Denver for a great-grandson’s ballet recital, with Hannah driving him as always. “Just hope I can stay awake through it,” he sighs. “Harder and harder these days.”

  “Just have Hannah wake you up before the boy’s songs,” Phillip tells him. “Don’t much matter that you sleep through the rest, long as you see him up there.”

  Gunny nods, takes Jorge’s queen with a pawn, and looks across to me. “And you, Miss Priya? Do you have plans?”

  “Mum has to go into work on Saturday to take care o
f some things.” Yelp takes one of my bishops. He’s going to whomp me solidly in a few moves. “Agent Archer agreed to take me down to Rosemont.”

  “What’s in Rosemont?” asks Jorge.

  “A really pretty little chapel with amazing windows. The secretary at Gunny’s church told me about it. I like to take pictures of stained glass.”

  “That’s almost an hour’s drive,” Steven points out. “For windows?”

  “My sister was the one to really love the glass,” I say quietly. The men all shift and settle, like birds on a power line. “Maybe it’s a way of saying goodbye, before we leave.”

  “Lots of pretty windows in Paris, last I heard.” Corgi scratches at his nose, tiny red dots blooming around a broken vein from the pressure. “That’s where Notre Dame is, ain’t it?”

  I stifle a grin at the way he says it: No-tree. “It is,” I agree. “It’s hard to put into words. I guess it’s more like . . . well, Chavi’s seen those windows. We went to Paris a few times when we were younger, back when we still lived in London.”

  “You lived in London?”

  “Till I was five. I was born there.” I shrug at their startled looks. “Mum got a really great job offer in Boston.” And she really, really wanted to put an ocean between us and the families, but I can’t say that to men who miss their families more than anything but are a little too broken to be with them day to day. Not all of them, but enough of them.

  “You don’t sound it.”

  “You’ve never seen me after a BBC marathon.” And there goes my rook. “I lost most of the accent in elementary school because kids made fun of me, and Mum helped me smooth the rest out. It comes across more when I’m tired.”

  “My daughter-in-law’s like that with Minnesota,” Jorge laughs. “She gets so pink about it, too.”

  Happy takes the conversation into a diatribe about customer-service lines, and I let it go. It’s a beautiful day, clear and breezy and nearly warm, and it’s tempting to stay all afternoon, but Archer’s waiting, and I really do feel safer at home. I can see Officer Clare across the parking lot near the deli, dressed in civvies. Watching. I have no doubt he’ll be by the tables to ask after me.

  Hannah walks me up to the grocery store, staying with me until Archer looks up from his tablet and sees us. She heads back outside with a kiss on my cheek.

  “What’ll you have?” I ask the agent. “My treat.”

  “Black coffee with a triple shot, and thanks.”

  “Not planning to sleep for the next week, are you?” I step back so I can turn and join the line, and slam into someone. My purse drops to the floor, the postcard, photos, and my wallet spilling out. “Aww, purse, no.” I crouch down to pick them up, but another set of hands beats me to it.

  I look up to see Joshua kneeling in front of me, my photos and the postcard held out. His tea and a hardcover book sit next to his knee. There’s a pair of slim reading glasses hooked onto the neck of his light sweater, the fisherman sweaters probably put away until the fall.

  “Thanks. Sorry for running into you.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’m just glad your photos weren’t ruined.” He nods at Archer, a vague sort of acknowledgment the agent returns.

  I drop the pics and card to the table. “Seems safer that way. Oh, and Archer? As thank-you for the ride, I’ll get your caffeine fix on Saturday. I want to be down in Rosemont before the sun rises.”

  His startled cursing follows me to the line.

  When I get back with my hot chocolate and his nervous twitch in a cup, Archer’s alone at the table. “Before dawn?” he asks sourly.

  “Or as close to it as possible. Have you ever seen the sunrise through stained glass, Agent Archer?”

  “No,” he says morosely. “I’m okay with that not changing.”

  “But it’s my birthday.”

  He sighs and sips his coffee.

  “Agent Hanoverian, sir? You have a delivery.”

  Eddison blinks at his papers and looks up at the door of the conference room. Vic and Ramirez seem equally startled, judging from how long it takes Vic to get to his feet.

  Then Vic starts laughing. “Ma sent us dinner.”

  “Bless your mother,” groans Ramirez.

  Shoving his notes to one side, Eddison accepts the Tupperware bowl of beef stew, still warm, and the tinfoil twist of the buttered dinner rolls. “She is an angel,” he agrees.

  For a time, they all focus on eating. It’s been a very long time since lunch. Once Vic passes out the wedges of pecan pie, they turn back to their task.

  “These girls become important to him,” Vic says. “Whether he’s preserving their perceived purity or punishing their wickedness, it’s personal to him.”

  “So what was it about Darla Jean?” Ramirez starts pleating her tinfoil into a fan. “She wasn’t just the first murder; she shaped his motive.”

  “All the interviews say she was a good girl. Her boyfriend said they’d only just kissed for the first time before she was killed. Everyone in town knew her, everyone in town loved her.”

  “But she was raped,” she replies. “His pathology means he saw something he considered sinful. Maybe even that kiss.”

  Grabbing Darla Jean’s file, Vic skims through the collected statements. “Boyfriend didn’t notice anyone around until the pastor came out of his office. After the boy left to go home, the pastor didn’t see anyone but Darla Jean, then he left to walk into town. As far as he knew, Darla Jean was alone.”

  “She didn’t try to run,” Eddison points out. “She didn’t try to fight until it was too late. This isn’t just someone she knew, this was someone she trusted.”

  “Even considering the rape, our first assumption would normally be family,” Ramirez says. “Father, brother, cousin, someone sees the kiss, decides her sinful ways make her unworthy of being family.”

  “Father died two years before Darla Jean from a heart attack, and her male cousins were all either too young or not in town. She did have an older brother, though.” Vic flips a few pages in the folder. “Jameson Carmichael; he was twenty-one at the time. Graduated at twenty from the University of Texas with a degree in Web design. Got a job with a small marketing firm in the city, commuted in from the family home in Holyrood.”

  “Is he on our list?”

  Eddison shakes his head, but double-checks anyway. Tapping the name into his tablet, he starts sifting through search results. “It doesn’t look like he’s been on anyone’s list recently. He quit his job and left the Holyrood/San Antonio area a few months after his sister died. He’s mentioned in a few memorials and articles, but there’s nothing else coming up.”

  “Well that sounds ominous.”

  Grabbing his phone, Eddison punches in a number and sends the call to the speaker in the middle of the table.

  “What do you need?” asks Yvonne, skipping the small talk.

  “Your wisdom and guidance,” he answers. “Your mad computer skills, at least. Is there any chance you can come in tonight?”

  “I’m alone with the baby, but I brought a secure laptop home, so I do have access to all my systems. Who loves me?”

  “We do,” laughs Ramirez. “We’re looking for Jameson Carmichael; he’s Darla Jean’s brother.”

  “And can you hook us up with the most recent spreadsheet from the florist calls?” Eddison asks.

  “Do you have any idea how many analysts loathe you right now?” They can already hear the swift tapping of keys in the background, as well as a baby’s contented burbling.

  “I know it’s mind-numbing, but is calling florists really the worst thing we could ask everyone to do?”

  “I know roughly the number of flower shops in the state of Colorado. Do you think this is something I ever wanted to know?”

  “I’m sure there are any number of husbands in Colorado who would be very grateful for that spreadsheet.”

  “Cute, but it’s called Google. Your man Carmichael, though—any chance he’s a dead John D
oe somewhere? Because he just disappeared when he left home. Closed out his bank account but doesn’t look to have started another. Texas driver’s license is expired, never renewed, but he didn’t apply for one anywhere else. No bills, no tickets, no leases or titles, no passport, no hospital admissions in his name. He’s not languishing in prison, either, unless it’s as a John Doe or under a very convincing other identity. Your boy’s probably either dead, suffering from amnesia, or he built himself a life under a new name.”

  “What about the car that was registered to him? You could track the VIN if he transferred the title or registered it elsewhere, couldn’t you?” asks Vic.

  “I could indeed, sir, but he did not. Car was totaled a few weeks after his sister died. Police and insurance both report that he hit a pair of deer.”

  “Deer totaled a car?”

  “They do it all the time,” Yvonne answers. “Bambi and his girlfriend can absolutely destroy your front end. Carmichael deposited the insurance payout about two weeks before closing account.”

  Eddison shakes his head. “You can get all that in seconds but it takes forever to find out if anyone has sold dahlias recently.”

  “Well, this time you gave me a name, sugar, not hundreds of businesses and owners who don’t always pick up their phone or return calls.”

  “I deserved that,” he says with a wince.

  “Yes, yes, you did.”

  “I’m sorry, Yvonne.”

  “Hey, I know this case is important,” she says gently. “If I could give the world a kick and a curse and make it go ten times as fast, I would.”

  “I know.”

  “Carmichael should have fingerprints on record from that investigation; can you run them, see if they pop up anywhere else?”

  Ramirez glances at Vic, her curls falling out of her pencil arrangement. “We don’t have the killer’s fingerprints at any of the crime scenes.”

  “No, but maybe he’s been printed under a different name. Names can change, prints not so much.”

  “Nada, sir.”

  “It was worth asking,” he sighs. “Thanks, Yvonne, and please send us the updated spreadsheet.”