Becca shook her head, but kept quiet.
“‘I see your point, I do,’ I said, trying to take the heat down. I tried to tell him they’re too young for that, they’re just kids trying to have fun. He kept on screaming. ‘Fun? You call losing fun? Figures you’d say that, cause your kid sucks. He’s the worst player I’ve ever seen. Look at him crying like a little pussy.’” Max wiped a hand over his mouth.
“I reared back and hit him as hard as I could, right in the breadbasket. He folded like a busted straight and fell sideways off the bleachers. The whole place went quiet, and I looked over at Maggie where she sat holding baby Austin. The look on her face…I thought it would embarrass her, what I did, but she didn’t look ashamed or humiliated. She was…proud of me.”
“You stood up for your son,” said Becca.
“We fight constantly now. Every time she looks at me, her face filled with disappointment, anger, disgust, I always think about that day at the park. I want it back.”
Once Max remained silent, she said, “That’s the kind of fight you need now, Max. Fight for your family. Focus on what you can control. Keep a positive attitude and maintain your treatment regimen. Fight.”
“Easy for you to say. You sit here all day telling others how to cope, how to live, but you don’t understand, not really. I bet you’re around suffering and pain all the time, but you can’t really understand it, not until it’s you.” Max appeared near tears, fists in tight balls thumped against his thighs.
“You know what? You’re right. I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but I have worked with hundreds of people in your situation. Some give up, some fight. You want to know the difference between the two?”
Max looked up, waiting for the answer, an answer he desperately needed.
Becca reached out and squeezed his forearm. “Purpose, Max. There’s some reason inside them pushing them on. Maybe it’s something they want to accomplish and can’t give up on the desire to live—they need to meet that goal. Perhaps they simply refuse to be beaten, a stubborn will refusing to allow anything to defeat them. Others are not ready to leave the ones they love. All find a purpose, a reason to fight.”
“I don’t have a reason. When my wife left and took my sons, every reason I had for wanting to live left with them. The only reason I’m even trying the treatments is that I’m terrified of dying. I’m not afraid of being dead. It’s the pain, the slow wasting, and all the tests. I don’t want what’s to come.” He seemed unaware of the tears coating his eyes or the thin line of snot running toward his lips, his gaze a million miles away.
“You can’t let fear paralyze you. Fear, if you let it, will keep you fixed in place. You won’t be able to look toward any possible future except the one you most dread. You’ve got to fight it.” Becca had said these same words to countless patients. She hoped they did not sound as empty as they felt. More so, she prayed the words contained truth and were not just little white lies meant to soothe fears, a pointless salve on a gaping wound. “You’ve heard the saying ‘you can’t always control your circumstances, but you can always control how you react to those circumstances’? Decide how you want to face this ordeal. Do you want to face it with fear and give up? Or do you want to face it with strength and dignity? It’s completely up to you, Max. No one can tell you how to live or how to die. Make your choice and fight with every ounce of will. If not, you’ll find yourself trapped in a nightmare.…” Becca froze. A thought slammed into her mind, followed by a wave of anger.
Max stared at her, puzzled. “Doctor?”
She tried to gather herself. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Nothing. You stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked a little odd for a second.”
“Did I?” asked Becca. She blinked a few times and shook her head. “Well, at any rate, think on what we’ve talked about. Don’t give up, Max. If you’re going to beat this, you have to fight it. Medicine and treatment won’t be enough. But more than that…live. Cherish every day, make the most of what time you have left, whether that’s one year or a hundred. What would you regret if you died tomorrow?”
“So many things I could never count them all. I regret that I couldn’t keep my marriage together. I regret I can’t take care of my wife, my kids. It would be easier to name the things I don’t regret. A much shorter list.”
“Work toward removing those regrets. Always wanted to do something? Do it. Don’t want to leave on bad terms with your wife, kids, friends? Talk to them. Fix it. Let the future come on your terms. Taking control of an issue will dilute feelings of powerlessness and give you some peace.” Again, Becca felt the thought strike at her consciousness. This time, however, she could not pretend to overlook its relevance to her own life. Anger welled inside her.
Keep it together. Focus on your patient.
Max turned his head downward. She could tell he was not ready, maybe he never would be, and he did not have a great deal of time to flip the switch. Most in his predicament went through this stage, belief in the inevitability of their deaths—the no hope stage. Many never moved beyond it. Working with hundreds of patients had given her a good compass for which direction one would go. She feared Max had already lain down and now waited for the fast approaching end.
“I’ll try, Doc,” he said without any conviction.
“That’s all you can do. Just try. See you Thursday?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here.” His every word dragged, down-tuned and in slow motion. His walk out the door carried the same defeat, body rigid, steps lurching in despair.
Becca leaned back in her chair. Max Bannon was dying. He faced the hardest road anyone could ever travel. Everything she told him carried with it truth that must be seized upon to give him any power over his situation. She could not force him to believe it.
Yet, what disturbed her during their session was how every word applied to her, her situation, her refusal to believe and to fight.
Dr. Rebecca Drenning…hypocrite. She preached the sermon and ignored it in her own life. A scam, a hoax, a run on those who desperately needed the magic elixir. Becca sold snake oil to the sick, and saddest of all, she needed the cure as badly as they did.
CHAPTER
5
“Have a seat, Gentry,” said the lieutenant.
Marlowe entered the office, pausing to glance at the dozen or so detectives and staff of Homicide Division busy with the day’s assignments before closing the door behind him.
Lt. Claude McCann, a big, Irish stereotype—close cropped, red hair over steel gray eyes, a flame-colored mustache crowning thin lips that twitched whenever he was annoyed, which seemed most of the time. With the sleeves of a white cotton button-down rolled to his elbows, his jet-black tie hanging loose around his neck, he stormed around the room like J. Jonah Jameson. The residue of cigarette smoke permeated the office, a poorly kept secret behind a closed door and blinds. The acrid atmosphere made Marlowe’s eyes sting.
McCann gestured at his computer screen, open to the news. “What a mess. The Seraphim Killer. The media is already calling this psycho the Seraphim.”
Marlowe rubbed his eyes for second and asked, “Seraphim? Why Seraphim?”
“Why? Because some asshole coughed up info on those ghastly arms, wings, whatever. I don’t know if a reporter got in before we sealed the scene, or if one of our people spilled it. If it’s the latter, and I find out who, my size twelve boot is going up their ass.”
“It’s kind of catchy though. Better than something cliché like The Angel of Death. I mean if you’re going with an angel motif.” A mischievous grin played at the edges of Marlowe’s mouth.
“Can the jokes, I’m in no mood.” The lieutenant possessed no sense of humor on his best days. He had two settings—angry and pissed-the-fuck off. He thundered around his desk, pounding a fist into his palm to accent each syllable. “I hope I don’t need to say this, but I’m going to anyway. It’ll make me feel better…and I can say I told you. Nothing like pl
ausible deniability in my position.”
Marlowe fought the urge to roll his eyes.
McCann never smiled, so one always had to assume complete seriousness.
“This is going to get out of hand in a hurry if we aren’t careful. This Seraphim shit is only the tip of the iceberg. We’re on the Titanic headed right for a world of hurt. You’re the best we have, so I need you on this, but your head better be in it. All the way in…got me?
Marlowe nodded.
“What a mess. A goddamned hack-and-slash serial killer. They’re supposed to be in New York or Chicago.”
“Oregon,” offered Marlowe.
“It wasn’t a question. Point is, they shouldn’t be killing people in my city. Let ’em go to Atlanta or Miami if they want a warm climate. Now we’ve got a second in five years. Do I need to tell you how the first one turned out?”
“No, you don’t,” said Marlowe through clenched teeth.
McCann actually seemed ashamed for a second…a short second. “Yeah, well…. Anyway, this one is a hundred times worse. Last time out, eight murders, but we managed to keep it local and without causing mass hysteria.”
Marlowe felt the need to rub his eyes again. His mouth would taste like an ashtray when he finally got out of here. “I seem to recall twenty-four-seven coverage. My face on most of it.”
“Sure, all local, not the national press. Birmingham Metro wasn’t hung out there as an example of an inept police force. Okay, so maybe some middle-aged men shit their pants for a few months, but we didn’t have a whole city on the verge of panic.”
“The victims were confined to a singular age group and race,” said Marlowe. “Most people figured they were safe and got off on the Hollywood-style media frenzy.”
“Yeah, and with this one no one knows. Anyone could be next on the chopping block. This go round, just the one murder so far and I already have CNN, MSNBC, Fox, the major networks and local stations crawling up my ass. You can’t throw a rock without hitting one, which sounds like a good idea now that I think of it. Everyone in the country is going to be glued to this like O.J. in a Bronco. The higher ups want it solved…yesterday.”
“I can handle the press. I dealt with them before.”
“The hell you will. Two years ago, you served them an educated pretty-boy face. Everyone loved it—media, viewers, even the brass, but that was before the shit it the fan. I don’t intend to rehash the past with you other than reminding you of the fallout, and the mess it caused. I will handle the press. You don’t so much as sneeze in a camera’s direction. And for Christ’s sake, keep Murray away from them.”
Marlowe suspected rehashing the Churchill Murders was the main reason for this meeting, but if the lieutenant wanted to play it subtle, Marlowe didn’t mind—subtlety not being McCann’s strong suit. Still, the less they discussed the specifics of the Churchill case, the more Marlowe would like it.
“We’re on it, Lieutenant. We’re doing everything possible. Koop will have the preliminary autopsy this afternoon, and Spence and I will comb through the victim’s background. It’s not microwave crime solving. We’ll work it as fast as we can.”
“Speed is secondary, let the brass sweat. Getting it right—that’s top priority. By the book Marlowe, every step. When we catch this son of a bitch, it’s got to be iron clad. Any defense attorney worth their salt is going to use your past against us. All that business with the Churchill case is going to come up. They’ll say what happened to you affected your judgment. We need to be ready and have every contingency covered. You’re a straight arrow, I know that, but this one has my panties in a bunch.”
“I understand. I’ve got it under control.” Marlowe tried to appear confident and sound reassuring.
“Do you? That episode back at the crime scene didn’t look under control to me.” Lieutenant McCann glared at him like a disappointed father.
“I’m fine, really. I didn’t eat breakfast and got a little queasy for a second.” Marlowe doubted the lieutenant bought the lame explanation, so he added, “What happened before is only greater motivation. I know better than most what happens when we get it wrong. I want this guy more than anyone.”
“Up for debate, and I don’t have time for it. You haven’t been the same since. You’re a surly, moody bastard these days—not that I can point fingers in that regard.” McCann leaned against his desk, not quite sitting. “Some say I can be less than pleasant on occasion.”
Marlowe’s eyebrows went up. “You, Sir? Nonsense.”
“Stow it. My point is, you get the job done, and that’s all I want. But, I don’t want you going all Charles Bronson on this thing. You’re a cop, not a vigilante. Last time was close to home, I get that. This time, no shrink will pull your ass out of the frying pan. Understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir. By the book.” Marlowe snapped to attention, one hand at his brow in a salute.
“By the fucking book.” McCann turned his back with a dismissive wave and ignored Marlowe’s flippancy.
Marlowe exited the lieutenant’s office, his mood soured. The mere mention of the Churchill Murders felt like a spike jammed into his eye. He worked hard at maintaining a case of selective amnesia, and the constant reminders did not help. In truth, he did not need it mentioned—most everything reminded him. He stopped in the hall thinking of Paige, the hollow long-gone look in her beautiful eyes. Marlowe closed his eyes, weathering another memory of her screaming. It would’ve been kinder if—
“Still in one piece?” asked Spence, coming up behind him.
Marlowe jumped. His barbed retort stalled as Spence offered him coffee. “Thanks.”
He walked in silence to his desk and plopped down. Spence rounded to his chair on the other side.
“Yeah, a real teddy bear, our boss.” Marlowe took a long sip, and sighed. “Read me the riot act about how he expects this case handled. Nothing we didn’t know, but he loves the sound of his own voice.”
“Sounding a bit resentful there, partner. I know Lieutenant’s worried the press will try to stir up old shit into this mess. With you being lead on both cases, it’s easy fodder for them to dig through to add a dash of scandal. Bunch of garbage divers, the lot of ’em.” Spence put his pen down and rotated his seat to face Marlowe.
“Nothing to find,” said Marlowe. “They broadcast everything but my shoe size the last time. One of those bloodsucking bastards even tried to sneak into Paige’s room at the hospital.”
Spence grumbled. “The Churchill Murders made horror movies look like Saturday morning cartoons. With this new nutjob, and the god-awful things he does, it all adds up to ratings. You know they’ll run at this thing from every angle over and over again. The talking heads will eat it up and spew it out for a public that gets off on this shit. This is real life CSI, Law & Order, and Hannibal Lecter all rolled into one.”
“What are you saying? The Churchill case is over and done, sealed and put to bed. I did what I had to do—in self-defense.”
“I know. Righteous shots all the way. You wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. The department would have you behind a desk or out to pasture. I was there, remember? For most of it anyway. But you know the media, they’re entertainment now, fighting each other for viewers. They haven’t cared about news for years. All of ’em go for the lowest common denominator.”
“Is this heading somewhere, Spence?” Marlowe felt his patience wearing as thin as his socks.
“The lieutenant has legit concerns, is all. I’ve seen what it did to you, how it’s still inside you. The threat of a loose cannon running wild on this case is not an added worry we need. This thing is pulling up a lot of shit for all of us. You were the most affected before, so it has to be needling at you. ”
“I’m fine. The shrinks cleared me. I dealt with it. But hey, if you and McCann think you can catch this guy without me, by all means be my guest.”
“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. Cut the defensive crap for a minute and think. If yo
u allow this case to pull you back down, you may not make it out this time. You barely recovered before. I don’t want to see you sink into that pit again. Stay with me, okay?”
“I’m headed to the morgue to work on catching a killer. If you want to join me, and stop playing shrink and priest, the car’s this way.” Marlowe stood and pushed past Spence, not waiting for an answer.
For two years, he had tolerated the concerned glances, the whispers. Everyone seemed to think him a breath away from eating a bullet, and although he would never allow anyone to know it—he was. Not a day went by he did not think about it. If he didn’t have Paige to take care of, Lord knows they’d have found him on the floor right next to Katy.
On the job, with something to focus on, he could manage. The quiet, he hated the quiet. Those moments alone, sitting in his dark, empty house, waiting for the alcohol to kick in, when the relentless images assaulted him, Marlowe would stare at a bullet for hours, twirling it between two fingers, thinking how easy it would be. One quick squeeze of the trigger, and bam, all over. One bullet to shatter the images once and for all.
Only Paige kept him going. The idea of giving up and leaving her an orphan repulsed him. Although sometimes, in the darkest moments, he questioned if she would be better off without him. Every mute glance, every dead-eyed stare accused him of not being strong enough to save Mommy. Nevertheless, Marlowe soldiered on, bottled it up, and tried to ignore it. Maybe not a stage in the grieving process, but the only way he knew to cope.
He could not discuss it with anyone, could not stomach the pity. One more hand on his shoulder mouthing some useless platitude and he might explode on the lot of them. They meant well, he knew that, and somewhere deep down he even appreciated the sentiment; even so, on the raw surface, he wanted them to take their condolences and sympathy and shove them up their asses. Just leave him the fuck alone.
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