We walk in and a twentysomething turns out to be one of the salespeople. She comes up to us with a patented retail smile, ready to help and sell. Her eyes widen as she gets a good look at me. The smile falters first, then shatters.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Problem?”
“No, I—” She continues to stare at my scars, flustered and horrified. I’m almost sympathetic. Beauty is her deity, and so my face must look like a victory for the devil.
“Go help the girls over there, Barbara.” The voice is sharp, a slap. I look over and see a woman in her forties. She’s beautiful in that way that beautiful women can have when they get older. Salt-and-pepper hair, along with the most striking blue eyes I’ve ever seen. “Barbara,” she repeats.
The twentysomething snaps out of it, flings out a single “Yes, ma’am,” and races away from me as fast as her perfectly pedicured feet can carry her.
“Don’t mind her, sweetheart,” the woman says. “She’s big on smiles, but a little lacking in the IQ department.” The voice is kind and I open my mouth to reply when I realize that she’s not talking to me, but to Bonnie.
I look down and see that Bonnie is staring daggers at the twentysomething. Bonnie is protective of me; she had not been amused. She responds to the woman’s voice, turning to her, giving her a very frank look of appraisal. The frown is replaced by a shy smile. She likes the salt-and-pepper lady.
“I’m Judith, this is my little shop. What can I help you ladies with?”
Now she is speaking to me. I give her my own look of appraisal, and see nothing false here. Her kindness is unforced, more than genuine. It’s innate for this woman. I’m not sure why I ask it, but the words fly from my lips before I can stop them. “Why aren’t you bothered like she was, Judith?”
Judith gives me a look with those oh-so-sharp eyes, follows it with a soft smile. “Honey, I beat cancer last year. It required a double mastectomy. The first time my husband saw the results, he didn’t even blink, just told me he loved me. Beauty is a highly overrated commodity.” She winks. “So, can I help you…?”
“Smoky,” I reply. “Smoky Barrett. This is Bonnie. We’re just looking around, and you already helped us a lot.”
“Well, enjoy and you just let me know.”
One last smile, a small wink, and she’s off, trailing kindness behind her like a fairy glow.
We spend a good twenty minutes in the shop, loading ourselves down with trinkets. Half of them will never be used, but boy were they fun to buy. We get rung up by Judith, murmur our good-byes, and leave with our loot. I look at my watch as we stand outside the store.
“We should get back, babe. Aunt Callie is going to be showing up in an hour or two.”
Bonnie smiles and nods, takes my hand. We exit the mall into a perfect day of California sunshine. It’s like walking into a postcard. I think about Judith, and glance at Bonnie. She doesn’t see me looking at her. She seems carefree, like a child should.
I put on my sunglasses and think again: This is a great day. The best in a long while. Maybe it’s a good omen. I’m clearing the house of ghosts, and life keeps getting better. It makes me certain I’m doing the right thing.
I know when I go back to work that I’ll remember: There are predators out there, rapists and murderers and worse. They’re walking with us under that same blue sky, basking in the heat of that same yellow sun, always watching, always waiting, brushing up against the rest of us and quivering when they do, like dark tuning forks.
But for now, the sun could just be the sun. Like the dream-voice said: We broken things, we still catch the light.
3
THE LIVING ROOM COUCH HOLDS US IN A SOFT, RELAXED GRIP. It’s a slightly battered old couch, light-beige microfiber, spotted in places by the past. I see wine drops that wouldn’t come out, something food-related that probably dates back years. The loot from the mall waits in bags on the coffee table, which also shows signs of past misuse. Its walnut was shiny when Matt and I bought it; now its top is marred and scarred.
I should replace them both, but I can’t, not yet. They’ve been loyal and comfortable and true, and I’m not ready to send them off to furniture heaven.
“I want to talk to you about something, honey,” I say to Bonnie.
She grants me her full attention. She senses the hesitation in my voice, the conflict inside me. Go ahead, that look says. It’s okay.
This is another thing I hope to put behind us, someday. Bonnie reassures me too often. I should be guiding her with my strength, not the other way around.
“I want to talk to you about you not talking.”
Her eyes change, going from understanding to troubled.
No, she’s saying. I don’t want to discuss this.
“Honey.” I touch her arm. “I’m just concerned, okay? I’ve spoken with some doctors. They say if you go too long without speaking, you could lose the ability to talk for good. If you never talk again, I’ll still love you. But that doesn’t mean that’s what I want for you.”
She crosses her arms. I can see the struggle going on inside her but I can’t define it. Then I get it.
“Are you trying to figure out how to tell me something?” I ask.
She nods.
Yes.
She stares at me, concentrating. She points at her mouth. She shrugs. She does this again. Points. Shrugs. I puzzle about it for a moment.
“You don’t know why you’re not talking?”
She nods.
Yes.
She holds up a finger. I’ve come to learn that this means “but” or “wait.”
“I’m listening.”
She points at her head. Mimes being thoughtful.
Again, it takes me a moment.
“You don’t know why you’re not talking—but you’re thinking about it? Trying to figure out the reason?”
I can tell by the relief on her face that I’ve hit the mark. It’s my turn to be troubled.
“But, honey—don’t you want some help with that? We could get you a therapist—”
She jumps up from the couch, alarmed. Cuts her hands in the air.
No way, no how, uh-uh.
This one needs no explanation. I understand in a flash.
“Okay, okay. No therapists.” I put a hand on my heart. “Promise.”
This is another reason to hate the man who murdered Bonnie’s mother, dead or not. He was a therapist and Bonnie knows it. Bonnie watched him kill her mother, and he killed any potential trust of his profession along with her.
I reach out, grab her, pull her to me. It’s clumsy and awkward but she doesn’t resist.
“I’m sorry, babe. I just…worry about you. I love you. I’m afraid of you never talking again.”
She points at herself, and nods.
Me too, she’s saying.
Points at her head.
But I’m working on it.
I sigh.
“Fair enough, for now.”
Bonnie hugs me back, showing me that it’s fine, the day isn’t ruined, no harm done. Reassuring me again.
Accept it. She’s happy, right now. Let her be.
“Let’s dig through all this cool junk we got, what do you say?”
Wide grin, big nod.
Yeah.
Five minutes later the trinkets have distracted her from the earlier discussion.
They distract me less, of course. I’m the grown-up. I don’t get to soothe my worries with nail polish.
There are things I haven’t told Bonnie about this two-week break. Omissions, not lies. A parental right. You omit so your child can be a child. They’ll grow up and shoulder the weights of an adult soon enough, and inevitably.
I have some choices to make about my life, and I have two weeks to decide what I’m going to do. That’s a self-imposed deadline. I need to make a decision, not just for me, but for Bonnie as well. We both need stability, certainty, a routine.
This has all come to a head because I was summoned to the
Assistant Director’s office ten days ago.
I have known Assistant Director Jones for the entirety of my FBI career. He was my original mentor and career rabbi. Now he’s my boss. He didn’t arrive at his current position through politics; he moved up through the ranks by being an exceptional agent. In other words, he’s real, not a suit. I respect him.
AD Jones’s office is windowless and austere. He could have chosen a corner office with great views, but when I’d queried him on it one time, his response had been something along the lines of “A good boss shouldn’t spend much time in his office anyway.”
He’d been seated behind his desk, a big, hulking, gray-metal anachronism that he’s had for as long as I’ve known him. Like the man himself, it screams, “If it’s not broke don’t fix it.” The desk’s surface was covered, as always, by multiple stacks of folders and papers. A worn wood and brass plaque announced his title. No awards or certificates adorned the walls, though I happen to know he has plenty he could put up.
“Sit down,” he’d said, indicating the two leather chairs that are always there.
AD Jones is in his early fifties. He’s been in the FBI since 1977. He started right here in California and worked his way up the chain of command. He’s been married twice and divorced twice. He’s a handsome man, in a hard, carved-from-wood kind of way. He tends to be terse, gruff, and unapologetic. He’s also a formidable investigator. I was lucky to have worked under him so early in my career.
“What’s up, sir?” I’d asked.
He’d taken a moment before answering.
“I’m not big on tact, Smoky, so I’ll just lay it out. You’ve been offered a teaching position at Quantico, if you want it. You’re not required to accept it, but I am required to tell you about it.”
I’d been dumbfounded. I’d asked the obvious question:
“Why?”
“Because you’re the best.”
Something in his demeanor had told me there was more to it than that.
“But?”
He’d sighed. “There is no ‘but.’ There’s an ‘and.’ You are the best. You’re more than qualified and more than deserving based on merit.”
“What’s the ‘and’?”
“Some higher-ups in the Bureau—including the Director—feel that you’re owed it.”
“Owed it?”
“Because of what you’ve given, Smoky.” His voice had been quiet. “You’ve given the Bureau your family.” He’d touched his cheek. I didn’t know if it was an unconscious gesture or apropos of my scars. “You’ve been through a lot because of your job.”
“So, what?” I’d asked, angry. “They feel sorry for me? Or are they worried about me cracking up down the road?”
He’d surprised me with a grin. “Under normal circumstances, I’d agree with that line of thinking. But no. I talked to the Director himself and he made it clear: This isn’t a politicized payoff. It’s a reward.” He’d given me an appraising look. “Have you ever met Director Rathbun?”
“Once. He seemed like a straight shooter.”
“He is. He’s tough, he’s honest—as honest as the position allows him to be—and he tells it straight. He thinks you’re perfect for the job. It would come with a pay raise, you’d have stability for Bonnie, and you’d be out of the line of fire.” A pause. “The thing is, he told me it was the best the Bureau was going to be able to do for you.”
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“There was a time you were being considered for Assistant Director—my job.”
“Yes, I know.”
“That’ll never be on the table again.”
Shock had coursed through me.
“Why? Because I got thrown for a loop when Matt and Alexa died?”
“No, no, nothing like that. That’s way too deep. Think shallower.”
I had, and understanding had arrived. On one hand, I hadn’t believed it. On the other, it was Bureau, through and through.
“It’s about my face, isn’t it? It’s an image issue.”
A complicated mix of pain and anger had flared up in his eyes. This had died away to weariness.
“I told you he gives it straight. It’s a media-driven age, Smoky. There’s no conflict with you running your unit and looking the way you do.” His lips had twisted into a sardonic smile. “But apparently the consensus is that it wouldn’t work in a director-level position. Romantic if you’re the hunter, bad for recruitment if you’re a Director or Assistant Director. I think it’s crap, and so does he, but that’s the way it is.”
I’d searched for the outrage I’d expected to feel, but to my surprise had found it absent. I could only summon up indifference.
There was a time when I had been as ambitious as the next agent. Matt and I had talked about it, even planned for it. We’d assumed that I’d climb the command ladder as a matter of course. But things had changed.
Part of this was pragmatism. Personal feelings aside, the powers-that-be weren’t wrong. I was no longer fit to be the administrative face of the FBI. I was good as a soldier, scarred and scary. I was fine to train others, the grizzled veteran. Photo ops with the President? Never going to happen.
The other part was possibility. Teaching at Quantico was a plum position that many aspired to. It came with good pay, regular hours, and a lot less stress. Students didn’t shoot at you. They didn’t break into your home. They didn’t kill your family.
All of this had passed through my mind in an instant.
“How long do I have to give my answer?” I’d asked.
“A month. If you say yes, you’d have plenty of time to make the transition. Six months or so.”
A month, I’d thought. Plenty of time and no time at all.
“What do you think I should do, sir?”
My mentor hadn’t missed a beat.
“You’re the best agent I’ve ever worked with, Smoky. Hard to replace. But you should do whatever is best for you.”
Here in the present, I glance at Bonnie. She’s engrossed in her cartoons. I think about today, about relaxed mornings and breakfast burps and trips to Claire’s.
What’s best for me? What’s best for Bonnie? Should I ask her?
Yeah, I should. But not now.
For now I was going to continue with the current plan. I was going to pack Matt and Alexa away. Gone but not forgotten.
We’ll see what things look like after that.
I didn’t feel stressed by the need to decide. I had choices. Choices meant future. Future here, future in Quantico, it was all forward motion, and motion was life. All of that was better than six months ago.
You keep telling yourself that. But it’s not that simple, and you know it. Something’s hiding behind that indifference, something dark and nasty and fang-ful.
Fang-ful isn’t even a real word, I reply to myself, scornful.
I put all of this out of my mind (or try to) and snuggle closer, letting Saturday be Saturday again.
“Cartoons rock, don’t they, babe?”
Bonnie nods without looking away from the TV.
Yes, she agrees. They do.
Not fang-ful at all.
4
“DON’T YOU BOTH LOOK LAZY AND PLEASED ABOUT IT,” CALLIE says.
She stands in the kitchen, posed. Burgandy-painted fingernails tap the black granite countertop of the kitchen island. Her copper hair contrasts with the white-oak cabinets behind her. She arches a single perfect, disapproving eyebrow.
Bonnie and I grin at each other.
If there was a patron saint of irreverence, it would be Callie. She is crass, sharp tongued, and has a habit of calling everyone “honey-love.” Rumor says that she has a written reprimand on file for calling the Director of the FBI “honey-love.” I don’t doubt it; it is Callie to the core.
She is also beautiful in a way that the twentysomethings envy, because it is a permanent beauty, a movie-star beauty, undeterred by age. I have seen pictures of Callie at twenty, and
I can honestly say that she is more beautiful now at thirty-eight. She has flaming red hair, full lips, long legs—she could have been a model. But instead of packing a hairbrush, she packs a gun. I think one of the things that makes her even more beautiful—if that’s possible—is her absolute disinterest in her own physical perfection. It’s not that she has a poor self-image (far, far from it), it’s that her beauty isn’t a meaningful trait to her.
Callie is hard as nails, smarter than the scientists at NASA, and the most loyal friend a person could ever hope to have. None of this is self-evident. Callie is not a touchy-feely girl. I’ve never gotten a greeting card or a birthday present from her. Her love shines through her actions.
It was Callie who found me in the aftermath of Joseph Sands. Callie who took my gun away from me, even as I pointed it at her, and pulled the trigger, firing on empty, click-click-click.
Callie is a member of my team; we have worked together for ten years. She has a master’s degree in forensics to go along with a mind made for what we do. Callie has a certain brutality to her when it comes to investigative work. Evidence and truth are her higher power. If the evidence points to you, she’ll turn on you and devour you, regardless of how well you got along before that point. She won’t feel guilty about it either. The simplest solution: Don’t be a criminal and you’ll get along with her just fine.
Callie isn’t perfect, she just wears her bruises better than the rest of us. She’d gotten pregnant at fifteen and had been forced by her parents to give up the child for adoption. Callie had kept this a secret from everyone, including me, until six months ago. A killer had forced it into the open. People could envy her beauty, but she’d fought and suffered to become the person she is.
“We are pleased,” I say, smiling. “Thanks for coming.”
She waves her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I’m here for the free food.” She gives me a stern look. “There will be free food, won’t there?”
Bonnie answers for me. She goes over to the refrigerator, opens the door, and comes back holding a Callie favorite: a box of chocolate donuts.
Callie mimes wiping away a tear. “Bless you.” She smiles down at Bonnie. “Want to help me polish off a few?”
The Face of Death Page 2
