“I. Um. Yeah. You. I’m sorry? Jack? It was delicious and I attach no qualifier to that. Also, I’m sorry.”
Jack just looked at him.
Archer shifted to full-on babble: “So very very sorry. Completely sorry. Just incredibly, very terribly sorry. It’s a wonderful meal, look! My plate! Totally clean!”
Jack walked over to the turtle table. Archer did his level best not to cringe. “You’re right,” he said, inspecting Archer’s plate. “That’s pretty clean. All your plates are pretty clean.” He gifted Angela and Leah with an approving smile. “So doing the dishes should be easy, doncha think?”
“I would be happy to do the dishes,” Archer replied at once. This was a duty that rotated between Drakes; today was Paul’s day. Paul, at least, would be delighted that Archer’s mouth had once again raced ahead of his brain. “So, so happy to help any way I can with the dishes.”
“Good.” Jack looked at Leah for a long moment. “Are you . . . I should have asked this before. Is there anything I should be making for you, for the baby? I went online earlier and read up on prenatal nutrition—”
“Which is why you’ve been filling me full of vitamin C and green smoothies and whole grains and yogurt,” Leah replied with a warm smile. “Among other things. That is kind of you, Jack. I’ve eaten better in the last week than I have in the last month. I have paid for meals in Paris that weren’t as good as one of your midday snacks. Thank you.”
Jack ducked his head, suddenly shy, and Angela was struck—again—by how young he was. “’S no trouble,” he mumbled, and then went back to the cookbooks.
“Your youngest cousin is terrifying,” Leah mock-whispered to Archer.
“He didn’t scare me one bit. Now for the love of God, give me all your dirty dishes so I can start my soapy amends.”
Leah looks better, Angela thought, watching the couple laugh. A little more rested, a little less pale. If anything, Jacky was the one who looked aggrieved and tired, and not just because of Archer’s ill-timed idiocy.
Angela slipped out of her seat and went to him. “Jacky-oh, are you okay?”
“Course.”
“Because you seem—”
“Aggravated because I’m surrounded by Visigoths?”
“Something like that.” Argh, too early. Can’t remember what a Visigoth is. Sounds bad, though.
“Haven’t been sleeping well.” This was a mutter directly into Martha Stewart’s Cooking School, a hefty hardcover that could, if swung with enough force, kill a pony.
“For how long?”
A shrug.
A puberty thing? A stress thing? He doesn’t study but he still gets A’s and B’s. I don’t think it’s school. Which means it’s probably us.
“Do you—did you want to see a doctor? I’d be glad to make an appointment for you.” He’d just gotten his license, so she added what she hoped would be an incentive to health maintenance. “You could borrow my car and hit DQ after, if you wanted. I would only ask that you bring me a banana split Blizzard. And maybe a Dilly Bar.”
That earned her a faded smile, nothing like his usual wide grin. “You don’t have to take care of me, Angela. I’m fine. You’ve got enough to worry about.”
“That’s not true, I can always take on more things to worry about. Worrying is practically my superpower.”
He shook his head. “I’m okay. Uh. That cop, Detective Chambers? He had to shelve Dad’s case, right?”
Is that what this is about? “Yeah, Jack, I’m afraid so. That’s why he was over here the other night—he came to warn me it was likely, and yesterday he left me a voicemail to confirm.” That I definitely haven’t listened to two or three or ten times. “I hope I didn’t get your hopes up.”
“I didn’t think that about you,” he said quickly.
“I thought if we had a new investigator, and Leah, that the case might be— Well, it was a long shot. But I hope you understand why I thought it was worth trying.” At his nod, she added, “And don’t worry, I’m not giving up. And Jason—the detective—he’s going to keep me in the loop. If anything breaks, he’ll let us know right away. It won’t be like—”
“Klown.” Jack smiled again, a real one this time.
“No, he’s not like Klown.” Damn. That was going to stick now. She hoped none of them ever ran across Kline again, particularly in public, because that would get awkward in a hurry.
“That cop. Not Klown. The other one. He’s really sad sometimes.”
Angela blinked. “Oh? I think—I think that’s just the nature of his job, Jacky. He works homicide. He deals with dead bodies and grief every day.”
Jack slowly shook his head. “I don’t think it’s because of his job.”
“You’re right, Jack,” Leah called from the other side of the kitchen.
They both turned to her, surprised. Archer immediately pointed at Leah. “It was the Insighting eavesdropper! It wasn’t me this time!”
“Eavesdropper? They’re five feet away having a conversation in normal tones of voice.” Leah turned back to them. “Detective Jason Chambers has depression. Or maybe dysthymia. He’s had it for at least three lives.”
Jack seemed to find that gratifying for some reason. “I knew he was sad, I told you!”
Archer shook his head. “Leah, I will never get over how creepy and impressive that is. Ow! Don’t pinch. Fine, it’s just impressive. Not creepy at all.”
Angela realized she was gaping (her mouth had even fallen open a little, creating a sexy goldfish look, how embarrassing) and looked away before Leah caught her. The wonderfully be-socked Jason was coping with depression or—or the other thing Leah mentioned?
Mental note: Look up dysh—dys—find out how to spell that word and then look it up.
And he’d been enduring it for multiple lives? Was that why he was so composed and quiet and calm all the time? Was he trying to learn from his other lives, or just enduring until he got a reboot? She was dying to ask him about it. She was dying to ask him any number of things.
But. Why did Leah do that? Leah was a professional; she didn’t diagnose near-strangers, especially out loud, especially when they weren’t her client, and especially not with others in attendance. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Leah was showing off. And since she did know better, what the hell was going on?
“What the hell is going on?”
“Gah!” Angela turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway. Annnnnd my morning gets weirder. She’s dressed! And interacting with family! At 8:00 a.m., no less. That’s— Wait, why am I mentally bitching about this? This is great. I can actually discuss my concern for a family member with an engaged parent who is fully clothed. She stepped forward and lowered her voice. “Mom, I’m glad you’re here. Can we go into the other room so I can talk to you about J—”
“I don’t want to talk about Jacob or Jason or whatever cop you’ve got fumbling around like an impotent idiot.”
Angela blinked. Okay. Lots of errors in that statement, starting with the fact that I wanted to talk to her about her youngest son.
And “fumbling”? “Impotent”? That’s a lot of rancor for someone she’s never met.
“Well, then, I’ve got great news, Mom.” But before she could finish
(cheer up, it’s being shelved again! again)
her mother cut her off for the second time. “We talked about this.”
“I know, Mom, and the thing is—”
“I said I don’t want you going again.”
Angela paused. “Careful, Mom. That was almost forceful.”
Widow Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to your brother?”
“Which one?”
“I’m fine!” Paul bellowed from somewhere in the house. “Leave me out of it!”
“Look at him!” Her mother
pointed to a startled-looking Jack, who had moved on from Martha Stewart and was now clutching James McNair’s* Afternoon Delights: Coffeehouse Favorites to his chest. “He’s clearly not sleeping. This is a tough time of year for all of us, and you’re making it worse.”
Angela tilted her head to one side and studied her mother. “How am I, personally, making this time of year worse for ‘all of us’?”
“He’s dead. Let him stay dead.”
Er. What? “Mom—”
“Your visits are a waste of time. I don’t want you to go. Dennis doesn’t even want you to go.”
“Dennis,” she said carefully, “is doing someone else’s time. How can you be okay with that?”
“Because Dennis is okay with that.”
“And how can you be against trying to get justice for Dad?”
“Your father already got justice.”
“How— That makes no sense, Mom. At all.”
But she was already shaking her head. “I refuse to let this go on. No more visits. No more files, no more crime-scene photos. Just . . . enough with the meddling. Enough.”
“You know that whole ‘quit meddling’ thing is making you sound like a Scooby villain, right? It’s a bit creepy. What are you afraid of? What could come out that’s worse than Dad’s murder?”
Creepy Mom didn’t listen any better than Ghost Mom. “I’m putting an end to it, Angela.”
Angela was still studying her like Emma Drake was an intriguing amoeba on a microscope slide. “Good thing I’m an adult, then, and don’t have to tremble and obey.”
She never says “prison,” or “ICC.” It’s always “your visit” or “your trip.” I used to think she did that out of grief, that Dad’s loss was so painful to her, she couldn’t bear to talk about her bro-in-law languishing in prison. But now I wonder.
Suddenly conciliatory, her mother laid a hand on Angela’s sleeve. “I’m doing this for you, sweetie. You don’t have the strength to stop this unhealthy obsession on your own, so I’m taking things into my own hands.”
“Oh, is that what this is? You’re—uh—saving me? From myself? And also from crime-scene photos?”
A nod. “That’s exactly right.”
“Mom, I’m not the only one of us who wants closure. With the notable exception of, well, you, the whole family—” She turned to gesture to them, only to realize that at some point they’d all stolen out of the kitchen with a minimum of noise, the bums.
“COWWWWWWWWWAAAAAARRRRRDDDDDDSSSSS!”
By the time she’d calmed down, she realized her mother had left, too.
TWENTY-SEVEN
MAY 1985
FLORIDA STATE PRISON
Seven minutes.
That’s how long it took for Jesse Tafero to die.
If you’re fucking someone you’ve been trying to get into for a while, seven minutes is no time at all. But if you’re being electrocuted by the state of Florida, seven minutes takes a while.
He refused to go back to prison. So he shot two cops . . . and went back in prison. But it could have been worse. Sure. Could have been him in malfunctioning Old Sparky, six-inch flames shooting out of his head. The official story: A rookie had used a machine-made sponge instead of the standard sea sponge. Sure. Accidents happen. Even in prison. Especially in prison.
He wasn’t sure he believed that. The rumor was, the legal system fucking hated cop-killers, and found new and interesting ways to torture them. Like “forgetting” to tell the new guy to use a real sponge, not something they picked up on sale from Walmart. That, he believed.
The guys close to Tafero’s cell could still smell him for a week afterward. That smell—you can’t ever get it out of your nose. Even if it’s gone, it’s not really gone.
So, yeah. Could’ve been worse—could’ve been him. And, yeah, Tafero’s kids were pretty much orphans, because the lie that killed their dad had also put their mom—Sunny Jacobs—in prison. She was found guilty of capital murder and, like Tafero, got a death sentence, like Tafero. Unlike Tafero, there wasn’t a death row for the ladies. ’Cause Florida was old-fashioned, maybe? Weren’t up to speed on the equality thing? Anyway, she got solitary confinement. For five years. Death maybe would’ve been better.
No, he didn’t believe that.
You gotta live, is all. No matter what you have to do. No matter what you have to say. Because when you were done, when God or the state of Florida put out your lights and burned you alive, that was it. There wasn’t anything else. That whole past-lives bullshit? Pure goddamned fantasy, thought up by chickenshits: Oh, don’t worry about dying, you’ll be born again and you’ll get it right next time!
What. Fucking. Bullshit.
So he testified Jesse had been the one to shriek about not going back to prison. He told the jury that Jesse had been the one to shoot Officer Black and Constable Irwin. That Jesse wasn’t just a cop killer, he was an international cop killer—Irwin was Canadian, his bad luck to be visiting his pal, Black.
Walter didn’t even know what the fuck a constable was; his lawyer’d had to explain it.
After condemning Jesse, Walter turned his attention to Sunny. Who’d let it happen, he testified, and she’d hadn’t cared even a bit. Thought it was funny. And she wasn’t trying desperately to calm her babies, and she sure never begged him to stop, to Stop already, please stop. You’re scaring them YOU’RE SCARING ME! Naw, she was in on it. Or if she wasn’t in on it, she didn’t care when it all went wrong.
Just tell the truth, they prompted, though nobody in that room wanted any such thing. Tell the jury what happened, that’s all. Tell ’em and we’ll talk to the DA. No problem. But you gotta do the right thing.
So he did the right thing and his reward was second-degree murder and life in prison. And yeah, that was bad, but guess what was worse? Six-inch flames shooting out of your skull, that was worse. Stopping the execution three times to put out the flames, then starting it up again, that was worse. Your friends smelling you a week after your bad death, that was worse. Never a doubt in his mind. Nope. He did it. Not me.
Oh, sure, when it was all done, when the papers weren’t writing about it anymore, when everyone was locked up and the cops were in the ground, he had his slipups. His conscience—miserable, useless thing—had prodded him to recant not once, or even twice. Three times he lost his guts, then spilled ’em: ’77, ’79, and ’82.
But that worked out, too. ’Cause the guards, the cops, the DA—they didn’t want the truth. Not on a closed case. Not after all the publicity. So he’d have an attack of conscience; but a few days later, sanity returned and he’d recant his recantation and the years slid by.
But then it was May 4, 1985, and the thing that hadn’t seemed real, something to think about but unlikely to happen . . . well, it happened. They killed Jesse, and his bad death couldn’t be undone.
So he’d fess up. Again. But he wouldn’t recant recanting this time. Not because he was pussying out. Not because his conscience was the boss. It was because he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. Because when he closed his eyes he saw Jesse burning and when he took a deep breath he smelled him. He got the shakes. His belly hurt all the time. He felt like puking all the time and when he did, there was red in it and he instantly flushed so he wouldn’t have to think about it.*
It couldn’t go on. He was disintegrating. He’d talk again. Not because it was the right thing to do; that was for fairy-tale suckers. He’d talk to save himself. That’s what it was.
That’s all it ever was.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Agh, Jesus!”
Angela found herself sitting up in bed; the transition from dream to reality was so rapid, for a moment she still felt Walter’s nausea. Yes, yes, I get it, I’m compelled to work Dad’s case because back in the day, I was a cowardly shithead. THIS IS NOT NEWS.
At least it wasn’t th
at memory fragment again, the one that kept bubbling to the top of her brain every other day or so. Dad with the bulging suitcase, but nothing before that image, or after. Her father holding an overstuffed suitcase, standing in the doorway and looking at her. Why was it bugging her?
She glanced at the clock and saw her alarm was going to go off in just over two hours. Fuck it. She’d hit the kitchen, make some mint tea. Try to get serene—as much as she ever could. Face the new day.
So she got up, pulled her robe over her opposite-of-sexy nightgown (faded flannel, sleeves too short, hem too short, cartoon penguin pattern), and started down the hall for the kitchen. Where there was . . . a light on?
To her surprise, Jack and Leah were also awake, sipping from mugs at the turtle table.
“What’s this?”
Leah immediately looked guilty. “I didn’t wake him! And I didn’t ask him to make me anything.” She pushed her nearly empty oatmeal bowl to one side. “I couldn’t sleep. So I came down—”
“To see if you could snag the last piece of triple coffee cheesecake,” Jack teased.
“Which was gone.”
Jack, in his black boxers and faded T-shirt (MY GOAL IS TO BE THE CAUSE OF YOUR NERVOUS BREAKDOWN) giggled. “Rookie mistake, Leah. If you weren’t an only child, you’d have known that that caffeinated sugary goodness was gone five minutes after I stuck it in the fridge. Why do I put any desserts in the fridge ever?”
“Four minutes,” Angela muttered. It had been delicious: creamy and cool, sweet and smooth on her tongue, with the slightly bitter chocolate/coffee aftertaste.* Knowing she’d beaten everyone to it just made it all the more succulent.
“So insomnia’s going around, I guess.” She poured herself a cup of hot chocolate (whole milk, shredded Godiva chocolate, cinnamon, a drop of vanilla extract . . . Jacky’s indulgent recipe had turned her off Swiss Miss for life) from the dispenser and sat across from them.
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