“I know.”
Tamara noticed their attention and ambled into the hallway. Her gait and posture made her appear more a patient than visitor. The same bloodshot eyes and frozen look of fear and sorrow Stacy wore, colored her features in a morose veil.
“Can I go get you something from the cafeteria?” Stacy asked Tamara after releasing her from a hug.
“No, I’m all right.” She glanced up at Marlowe as though becoming aware of his presence.
“This is Marlowe Gentry, Spence’s partner and best friend,” said Stacy.
Marlowe shook her hand. “So you’re the one who got away. I’ve heard all about you.” He gave her a smile he didn’t feel, and she mimicked the gesture with equal faux poise.
“Didn’t get away, just took a while for him to come to his senses. And now it’s too…” Her bottom lip quivered and her body shuddered.
“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. He’ll be okay. He will.” The weakness in Tamara seemed to bring out the motherly instinct in Stacy. Her voice carried a command and assurance Marlowe doubted he could have mustered.
Stacy guided her back into the waiting room, leaving Marlowe alone with his thoughts and worries. He noticed Kline standing some way down the hall, obviously feeling like an intruder. Marlowe walked toward her, thinking of what to say. Now wasn’t the best time to go into it, but it might distract him from Spence, and he needed to know.
“What happened in the woods?” Marlowe braced one hand on the wall and waited.
Kline rocked back, shocked by the lack of segue. “I-I…”
“You froze. I’ve known you were hiding something since the start. Is it why you left the Bureau?”
She stared at him, either amazed by his deductions or embarrassed her guile had proved so ineffective. Then she fell back against the vending machine with a heavy sigh.
“My first year in the field, we worked a case in D.C., drug trafficking and gun running, joint with the ATF. We got a line on a suspect and me and my partner, good guy named James Litmore, went to check it out. We only wanted to question him. Intel said he was a mid-level go between, and we wanted to bring him in, turn him on the big dogs.” Her gaze sought something on the floor, fingers twirling in clasped hands. “He bolted out a window and down the fire escape when we knocked on the door and identified ourselves. James took to the right and me the left. The perp came out in front of me. His gun came up, but too slow. I had the shot. I couldn’t do it. He realized it and fled in the opposite direction, darting into a far alley between two buildings. I heard shots, raced to the alley, and found James lying face down, two exit wounds in his back.” She recounted the story with the same detachment as a PTS victim, the emotion still overwhelming, evident in her eyes, but buried deep, scars that would never completely heal.
“Hey, look at me,” said Marlowe. “I get it. I’ve been there. A moment when you’re unsure what’s the right call. But listen, when it comes to the perp going down or one of your team, it has to be the perp, every time. People are counting on you. Civilians in harm’s way, your partner depending on you to watch their back. You’ve got to let your gut, your instinct, take over. Don’t hesitate. Trust your training.”
She nodded as though she had heard it all before. “Maybe I’m not right for this. You should get someone you can trust.”
“I want you,” said Marlowe. “You have a sharp mind, and your profiling skills are exemplary. But I have to know you can handle the rough stuff, the tough decisions in the heat of the moment. You can’t sit back and analyze data and be a part of this on the ground.”
Kline didn’t respond, her eyes refusing to meet his.
“I need to know, Lori. Can you do this?”
The mention of her first name seemed to take her off guard. Marlowe’s tone and expression, sincere and caring, worked a change in her demeanor. She stood straight, shoulders back, and nodded.
“I can. I won’t let you down again.”
Marlowe smiled. “You haven’t let me down. Keep your head in the game, and know you aren’t the only one to experience doubt and fear. If the day comes when you don’t, that’s the day you should quit.” He turned toward the waiting room.
“Gentry?”
“Yeah?” said Marlowe.
“Thank you,” said Kline, a nervous blush in her cheeks.
Marlowe tilted his head. “We’re a team. All of us. We look out for each other.”
Kline and Marlowe returned to the waiting room to find the surgeon updating everyone on Spence’s condition.
“He’s critical, but stable. We were able to stop the internal bleeding and remove all the fragments. Injuries to his lungs and liver don’t appear to be life threatening, and not likely to cause permanent damage. I believe he’ll pull through. He’s very lucky.” A middle-aged doctor with a decent bedside manner, he smiled warmly and received a hug from Stacy.
“Oh, thank God. Thank God.” She cried and laughed simultaneously.
Koop followed the surgeon from the room, badgering him with a million clarifying questions. Tamara and Stacy huddled in the chairs, relief and joy evident in their voices and on their faces. Marlowe stepped into the hall and allowed his emotions free rein, tears washing away hours of fear.
CHAPTER
26
Becca had taken the day off. Frazzled nerves and fatigue numbed her mind and made listening to her patients a chore where little stuck. Some days she questioned what possessed her to become a psychologist, and worse, to specialize in counseling those suffering dementia and the terminally ill with their distraught families. Still yet to master professional detachment, Becca absorbed too much of their pain and fear, carrying it with her. After Max Bannon, the tendency became almost overpowering, but in time, she found equilibrium, and in her own estimation, became a better doctor. So, the fact she could not make any headway with Paige grew more and more frustrating. Following her last conversation with Marlowe, Becca renewed her commitment and attempted to find some way of reaching a truce with Paige, but so far, had found no common ground. That such a tiny person could get under her skin and drive her crazy shamed her. On second thought, she supposed most parents could relate. But she wasn’t the parent. She didn’t sign up for this. Becca wondered if she could afford this package deal. Was she the right person for the job?
It felt strange to ask permission to enter a room in her own house, but little girls liked their privacy. Becca had been one, so long ago. She tried to remember what it was like and find some way to relate to the feelings. Her own mother, though she loved Becca dearly, stayed busy with her career as a high-powered attorney and one husband after another. Becca spent much of her time alone or with friends. The traditional battle of wills never materialized between them, only a vague sense of alienation from time to time. Even so, Becca had always been headstrong and independent, rarely resenting her mother’s periods of absence.
Her father died when she was too young to remember him. Still, the loss bore no similarity with what Paige had suffered. Paige’s mother didn’t simply die—no illness or accident. Becca watched Max die, but though she sympathized with him and cared for him on some level, it couldn’t compare to the loss of a mother. No common ground, no thread to tie her to Paige, except a love for Marlowe, and she had yet to find a way to exploit their mutual affection.
“Paige? Can I come in?”
When no answer came from inside, Becca turned the knob and poked her head inside. Paige sat on the bed holding a framed photo. Stuffed animals surrounded her in a colorful, furry menagerie. Becca eased onto the bed beside the little girl, who did not look up.
“What’cha got there?” Becca leaned in and caught a glimpse of the photo before Paige snatched it away; Paige and her mother Katy, smiling with the sun, sand, and ocean behind them.
“Oh, Honey. I know you miss her. You’ve been through so much.” Becca reached out to nudge a lock of blonde hair from Paige’s forehead, but the girl jerked her head to the side, avoiding the co
ntact. “I’m not going to tell you how you’re supposed to feel or act. You’ve got to work through it and handle it in your own way. I only want to be here for you. And I don’t want to take your daddy from you or try to be your mommy. I’d just like to be your friend.”
Paige looked up at her, but said nothing. Becca tried to read the expression. The only message she could discern from the scowl—when will you leave me alone? Becca sighed, placed a fat beige bear next to Paige, and exited the room. She could not feel more deflated if Paige had punched her in the belly.
Becca returned to her room and fell face first onto the pillow. She felt like crying or screaming, perhaps both. Too difficult. Cut ties and move on. She hadn’t been alone since meeting Michael. Did he kill the independence in her? Make her afraid to live without someone close? Did she love Marlowe or simply fear being without him?
Once her frustration settled, her mind went back to Paige clutching the photo. Marlowe babied her too much, afraid to stir the raw feelings lying fragile beneath the thin veil of an eleven-year-old girl. But Becca too easily forgot all Paige had been through. Not only the unimaginable horror of witnessing her mother tortured and murdered before her eyes, but the separation from Katy physically and from Marlowe emotionally for the two years following the event. Loneliness soon turned to feelings of rejection and worthlessness in the heart of a child.
The longer she thought about it, the guiltier she felt. Maybe getting Paige out of the house and into a new setting would help. Becca could play the benevolent, fun time aunt and take her for ice cream. She recalled Marlowe reneging on the promise of a cone in the park. Mind made up, she pushed off the bed and strolled down the hall feeling good about herself—swallowing her pride, taking the high road, a mature adult for once.
“Paige?”
“Go away,” piped a high-pitch squeak.
“I thought we could go…”
Becca stepped into the room to find Paige drawing on the wall in the permanent colored markers Marlowe had given her. He also gave her a large sketchpad, as she loved to draw, but Paige had foregone the pad for illustrating the bedroom wall in unicorns and an assortment of brightly portrayed animals.
“Paige! What are you doing?” Becca stormed forward and yanked the marker from Paige’s hand.
The little girl stared at her empty palm and peered up at Becca with an expression part innocent, part hostile.
“You can’t do that,” said Becca, her face flushed with irritation.
“Daddy lets me at home. All my walls are so pretty. This room’s plain and boring.” Paige turned away, retrieved a green colored marker, and continued her mural.
Becca snatched the marker mid-pony, gathered up all the pens and crayons, and shoved them into the container. “This isn’t your house. It’s mine. You need to learn a little respect and not to destroy other people’s things. As long as you’re staying here, you’ll honor my rules and take care of the things I let you use. Do you understand me?”
Paige bounded onto her feet. “I don’t want to stay here. Daddy’s making me. I want to go home. I hate you. You’re ugly and mean…and I hate you!” She rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Becca shook with anger. After one of Michael’s drunken outbursts, she’d spent the better part of two weeks repairing and repainting that wall, with no help from him. The memories, though nothing alike, merged and set her blood boiling. The defilement of her sanctuary, a symbolic defacing of her attempts to rebuild her life and put the past behind her. Overstated, certainly, and in an hour she might realize she had blown the matter out of proportion, but right now, Becca allowed her ire full rein.
She stomped downstairs, grabbed a glass and a bottle of red wine, and carried both to the sofa. Half the bottle disappeared before her nerves began to settle and her hands stopped shaking. Somewhere deep down, she knew she had overreacted, but the slow build over the previous few days, and really, the last few months, simply erupted without warning. Becca fought the impulse to rush back upstairs and attempt an apology. With a good buzz warming her belly and lightening her head, she wasn’t certain the mea culpa would go as intended. Best to wait a while, let it cool. Maybe tomorrow.
“Everything’s quiet. We’re battening down the hatches for the evening.” Wayne lumbered into the living room from behind, making her jump. “Sorry. I do that a lot.”
“It’s okay. My nerves are a bit on edge today.” Becca mustered a grim smile.
“I heard. That’s one little fireplug. Been through hell though, so no wonder.” Wayne took a seat in the recliner and propped his feet up.
Becca hid her annoyance; so many people getting too comfortable in her house lately. “Yeah. My fault.”
The admission surprised her. Reflex, but she knew it was true. Her eyes dropped to her lap as she took another sip of the wine. The reaction had overwhelmed the moment and robbed her of good sense. Paige tested her…and she’d failed. So many better ways to have handled the situation. She could have worked it to her benefit, but too late now. Damage done.
I’m not her mother. I have no goddamned idea how to be a mother.
“My wife always wanted kids. I wanted to wait until things were less hectic. Finances under control, that sort of thing.” Wayne gazed across the room, his eyes vaguely aimed at the breezeway door, but his sight seemed locked on a vision much farther away. “If I could go back, we’d have a whole litter of the li’l rug rats.”
Becca doubted she had ever seen a sadder smile. “Marlowe told me some of what happened. I’m so sorry.”
Wayne nodded. “Long time ago…In most ways. Gonna grab a drink from the fridge. Don’t worry, we brought our own. Need anything?”
“No. Thank you.” Becca raked her fingertips along her shoulders, feeling tightness in her neck. She bobbed her head side to side and winced at the sting.
Wayne returned, plopped down in the chair, and twisted off the top on a Dr. Pepper. “A beer would be good right now, but gotta stay sharp.”
“You think we’re still in danger?” The reason for Wayne and his crew’s presence had escaped her for a moment, and she didn’t appreciate the reminder.
“Nah. Guys like Caesar Ramirez don’t get where they are by taking chances. With me and my guys here, he’d be stupid to try something.”
The confidence in his statement made her feel a little better. “But what about the men who shot at Marlowe?”
“Opportunity. Marlowe’s at greater risk out there than you and Paige are here. With one of my guys following you to work, not much chance for anyone to make a play, and too many eyes inside the hospital. No, it’s Marlowe I’m worried about.” Wayne drained his drink in a series of long continuous gulps.
“You two are pretty close, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Owe the man my life…and more.” He stared at the empty bottle, rubbing a thumb over the clear plastic shell.
Becca sighed and studied the scarlet liquid swishing gently against her own glass. “Me too.”
“I imagine all this is a big strain on you two.” Wayne shied and reddened. “Sorry, I’m nosy. None of my business.”
“No, it’s okay. Things haven’t been great lately. But he has a lot going on with this mess, Spence’s brother missing, and of course the Heretic.” Reciting the litany brought the weight of all Marlowe dealt with home to her, and again, she felt guilt twist in her stomach.
He nodded. “Don’t miss it a bit. Like what I’m doing. Less…restrictions.”
Becca wasn’t sure what he meant, but felt quite certain she didn’t want to know. “It’s hard, you know? Everything…I deal with fear, suffering, and death every day, so does Marlowe. Sometimes it’s too much. Gets difficult to think about anything else. Leave it at the office. You know?” Becca shook her head with a deflated smile. “Of course you do.”
“I remember, too well. My wife did social work. We had it much the same way. Spend all day wading through everyone else’s shit, forget it ain’t yours sometimes.” Wayne
dragged a hand over his bald dome, the overhead light creating a halo on the shiny surface.
“I don’t want to lose him. I do love him. But I need the waves to stop rocking the boat. I need a calm little island out of the storm, you know. A place where we can rest, be together. All the bad shit out to sea, far away. For a little while…once in a while.” Becca slouched forward, elbows on her knees, the wine glass loose in her fingers.
“I met my Vicki on the job. Saved her. Nothing as dramatic as you and Marlowe, but could’ve been bad. Car wreck. Raining, slick as a seal’s ass, she lost control of the car and slid off into a ditch. Not a big deal ‘cept the car sideswiped a big ass tree and a branch jammed right through the driver’s side window. She couldn’t get out and was panicking something awful. Gas tank took a hit, pouring out underneath the vehicle. Thing might have gone up. Doubt it, though. Shit only happens in the movies. But I got to play the hero. Before rescue or fire department showed, I had her out, wrapped snug as a bug in a nice toasty blanket.” Wayne smiled at the memory. “Still remember how she looked at me. Like the bloody Christ or something. Lancelot, maybe.”
“Sounds familiar.” Becca twirled her finger around the rim of the glass.
“Thing is, she had to love the man, not the savior. Being a hero’s a onetime thing, if you’re lucky, ain’t enough though. Gotta love the man. Thank God she did. The hero got in the door and earned some trust and respect, but the man had to step up and take over or it would’ve faded.” Wayne leaned forward in the recliner and waited for Becca to meet his gaze. “Gotta love the man, not the savior.”
“I owe him so much. I feel safe with him. That’s the savior, isn’t it?” She desperately needed the answer to that question.
“Not for me to say. You can’t go through life basing love on what you owe, but feeling safe should be part of the deal. In the end, only you can decide. What’s the bond? What keeps you together? The man? The savior? But don’t confuse the job for disinterest or lack of love. You’re getting a big package—kid, a cop—gotta settle for a third. The minute Marlowe starts dividing those up unequally’s the moment he loses. Loses you, loses Paige, and if he loses at the job, could lose his life. Ain’t easy on a partner. But you wouldn’t still be around if you weren’t tough.”
The Dark Age_A Marlowe Gentry Thriller Page 23
