She shrugged, then regretted moving her arm. It was almost time for another painkiller, but she was holding off as long as she could. “I’m just wondering if there was something anyone could have done to help Charlie. Maybe there was some way to make things better for him.”
Radar sipped at his coffee. “No culture seems to know what to do with the mentally ill. The British are no different than we are with this.”
She considered that. “It’s just he said to me it’s okay. It’s quiet.” She fought the rush of tears, pressing her tongue against her teeth to force control. “I can’t imagine what he suffered, all those years, with another voice talking at him all of the time. Why couldn’t someone do something to help him?”
Radar sighed. “I don’t know, Sparky. Some things we just don’t understand. And some things we just don’t know how to fix.”
She nodded and took a sip of the coffee. Nice and sweet, just the way she liked it. She looked over at him. “I listened to you, you know?”
“What?” He glanced at her.
“During the attack, I remembered what you told me. Back in San Francisco when we were training. You told me to do the unexpected, so I did. I threw perfume in his eye.”
Radar gave a bark of laughter. “I thought he smelt awful pretty.”
She smiled at him. “I do listen to you, even though you don’t believe it. I listen and I remember.”
He faced forward again, squaring his jaw. “You should. I give damn good advice.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
His gaze snapped to her face. “That wasn’t very professional, Agent Brooks.”
“I don’t really care.”
“Yeah, I’m learning that about you.” But he was smiling.
“Were you the one who took the shot?”
“No. I didn’t have the right angle. It was Bambi who took it. She’s almost…” He held up a finger. “...almost as good as I am.”
Peyton smiled, glancing up as Bambi and Tank approached. Bambi dropped into the seat next to Peyton, holding out a box with a cellophane window on the top.
“This is a chocolate cupcake with chocolate filling, and chocolate icing.” She pressed it into Peyton’s hands. “For you.”
Impulsively, Peyton leaned forward and kissed Bambi on the forehead.
She gave Peyton a bewildered smile. “It’s just a cupcake, Peyton.”
“Sparky, you’ve got to stop kissing people. You’ll give the FBI a bad reputation.”
“You got a kiss too?” asked Tank mournfully.
Peyton rose and grabbed the lapel on his jacket, pulling him down to her so she could kiss his cheek. He beamed a smile at her.
“You need to stop,” said Radar, glaring at her.
“I love my team. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“That’s the painkillers talking.”
She sat down next to him again. “It’s not the painkillers.”
“Have you figured out what you’re going to tell your boytoy when he sees your throat?”
Peyton sobered at that. “I’ve got a twelve hour flight ahead of me. Maybe it’ll be faded by then.” She gave Bambi a hopeful look.
“Honey, your eyes look like you’re the spawn of Satan. There’s no way that’s going to fade.”
Peyton stared down at the box, chewing on her bottom lip.
“Eat your cupcake, Sparky, and stop fretting. You could always tell him it’s the latest fashion trend in London.”
Peyton lifted the lid on her box and took a sniff. She was going home to him, and honestly that was enough. Yesterday that almost wasn’t a possibility, so if Marco wanted to yell at her, so be it. She was still alive to hear him.
* * *
Marco left his office, hesitating by Lee’s desk as Cho and Jake moved toward the front of the precinct.
“I sent our report to you a few minutes ago,” said Cho.
“Thanks.”
He pointed to the door. “We’re just headed out, unless you have something else you want me to do.”
“No.” Marco looked at Lee. “You should go too. It’s past 6:00.”
Lee grabbed a small cooler and rose to his feet. “Just headed out, Captain.”
Marco smiled at him as he went around the desk and made for the front door, Cho on his heels. Jake hung back and Marco could feel his eyes searching him.
“What?” he snarled.
Lee and Cho hesitated on the other side of the counter.
“You okay?” Jake asked, his eyes narrowed in that speculative look he got.
“I’m fine.”
Cho gave Marco a forced smile. “We’re just going to the symphony tonight.”
“What?”
“Jake and I and Abe. We’ve got tickets to the symphony.”
“Okay?”
“If you need one of us, we’ll be on cell.”
“I won’t need you.”
“When’s Peyton coming home? Have you heard from her?” Cho continued, shifting weight uncomfortably.
Marco ground his teeth, fighting not to snap. It was one thing to growl at Jake. Jake didn’t care, but Nathan Cho was a friend he didn’t want to offend.
“She’s coming home tomorrow. She’s probably already in the air.”
“Good. Good.” Cho jerked his head toward the door, indicating that Jake should come, but Jake held back, studying Marco intently.
Marco started for the door himself, deliberately refusing to make eye contact. “Go to the damn symphony, Ryder,” he grumbled and shoved open the half-door.
Lee and Cho got out of his way as he threw open the outer door, walking down the stairs and into the parking lot without looking back. Climbing behind the Charger, he started her and wheeled out of his space, pretending he didn’t notice them watching him.
He meant to drive directly to Peyton’s house, but he found himself in front of the liquor store down the street. He sat in the Charger for at least five minutes debating.
Finally, he threw open the door and limped inside, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels on the display as he headed for the counter. Thankfully the attendant didn’t want to talk with him and simply took his money, placing the bottle in a paper bag and giving him his change.
He didn’t allow himself to think about what he was doing as he got back in the Charger and drove to Peyton’s house. Parking in the driveway, he grabbed the bag and climbed out, slamming the Charger’s door and heading for the ramp.
He hesitated before Peyton’s entrance, staring down at the bouquet of red roses resting on her doorstep. He picked them up and unlocked the door, casting a baleful eye on the security camera. Pickles bounced around his feet as he set the bottle of Jack Daniels and the roses on the sofa table, threw his keys, wallet and badge on its surface, shucked out of his suit jacket and holster and hung those on the pegs by her door.
He forced himself to feed Pickles and take him down to the drive to relieve himself, then he came back into the house and grabbed the bottle and flowers, carrying both to the couch. He sank into a corner of the couch, setting the flowers on her coffee table. A card was affixed to a plastic holder in the middle of the bouquet and he debated whether he should read it or not. In the end, he set the bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table and reached for the card, flipping it over in his hand.
I got it. Thank you, Barnabas.
He didn’t know what the hell it meant, but he knew who the flowers were from. He wanted to throw the whole mess out her window and into the street, but he replaced the card on the holder and shoved the flowers into the middle of her table, then he reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels, pulling it out of the paper bag.
Resting the bottle on his thigh, he stared at the flowers, feeling rage and hurt and confusion race through him. Just when he was about to break the seal on the bottle, Pickles jumped up on the couch and curled up, pressing his back against Marco’s leg. Marco stared down at the little dog, then reached out and ran his hand over the Yorkie’s
fur.
And that’s where Jake found him sometime later.
Marco heard the lock turn on the door, but he didn’t move.
“It’s me, Adonis. Don’t shoot,” Jake called. He eased into the living room, pausing by the armchair, resting his hands on the top of it.
Marco gave him a quizzical look. “You were going to the symphony.”
“Eh, honestly, I’d rather catch a baseball game. I was just going because Nate and Abe asked me to go.” He eased into the armchair. “So what exactly are you doing?”
“Sitting with Pickles.”
“And the bottle of Jack.”
Marco tilted it, staring at the label. “Deciding whether to drink it or not.”
Jake reached out and took the bottle from his hand. “Let’s not do that, okay?”
Marco didn’t respond.
Jake set the bottle on the floor next to his chair. “You get the flowers? That doesn’t seem like you.”
“Nope.” Marco let the word drip with sarcasm.
“That Mike idiot?”
“Yep.”
“Did the fool deliver them himself?”
“I suppose. I haven’t looked at the surveillance tape yet.”
“Did you read the card?”
“I did. And I don’t give a damn what you think about it.”
“I would have done the same thing. In fact, I would have thrown the damn things away.”
Marco sighed, stroking Pickles.
“Why didn’t you?”
“They don’t belong to me. They’re Peyton’s. She gets to decide what to do with them.”
“What does the card say?” Jake rose and read the card. “What does it mean?”
“No idea.”
Jake sat down again. “You can’t really believe she’s interested in this clown.”
Marco shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”
Jake braced his arms on his thighs. “Look, Adonis, I know it’s been a bitch of a day…”
“You might say that.”
“And I know you feel gut punched by the Peterson case.”
Marco didn’t respond.
“But it’ll pass and Peyton will be home tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
Jake gave a low laugh. “That’s the sort of sure someone says before he downs an entire bottle of Jack. Talk to me, Adonis. Don’t brood by yourself. Come on. I know you’re more evolved than that.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Jake considered for a moment, then he slapped his hands against his thighs. “Have you had anything to eat? I can order take-out. What do you want?” He got to his feet and turned toward the kitchen where Peyton kept her take-out menus. “Feel like Chinese?”
“She said it was my fault.”
Jake stopped and turned around again. “Carol?”
Marco nodded. “She said I wouldn’t give up the investigation, so she had no choice. She said she had to kill him.”
Jake returned to his chair and sat. “You had to keep investigating, Adonis. Nothing was adding up. You had to figure out who shot Demetri Zonov.”
“Why? He was a low-life. A junior criminal. He would have just kept on until he killed someone. Maybe Carol did the world a favor by taking him out.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t know what I believe.” He looked at Jake for the first time. “I don’t know what I think anymore. Brad died because I didn’t bounce the case, because I didn’t ignore the evidence and leave it alone. All I had to do was give it to Central and they would have taken care of it for me. That’s all I had to do.”
“You couldn’t do that. You couldn’t pretend it was self-defense when it wasn’t. Whether he was a good person or not, Demetri Zonov deserved the same justice Brad Peterson did.”
“Who got justice? Tell me who. Carol? She’s going to spend the rest of her life in prison. Brad? He got a bullet in the head. Demetri? He’s dead. Who got justice here, Ryder?”
“I don’t know, Adonis. I guess no one did, but that isn’t your fault.”
“How isn’t it?”
“You don’t decide who gets justice. Peyton told me this once and she was right. We don’t decide that. That’s for judges and juries. All we do is solve the cases, find out what really happened. Get the truth. Sometimes that means that people go to prison, Adonis, and sometimes it means people don’t get the justice they deserve.”
Marco exhaled wearily. “What’s the point then? What’s the reason for any of this?”
Jake leaned forward, his eyes piercing. “Because sometimes, Adonis, sometimes they do.”
EPILOGUE
He stood waiting for her, leaning on his cane, a tall, solid figure in jeans and a ribbed sweater. She paused a moment, staring at him, a conflict of emotions flooding her. She was home and he was waiting.
Hurrying through the crowd in the airport terminal, she stopped before him, releasing the handle on her suitcase. He gave her a puzzled look, taking in the scarf and the sunglasses, but she didn’t give him time to say anything.
Stepping forward, she wrapped her good arm around his waist and pressed her face to his chest, breathing in his scent. He curled his free arm around her, lowering his head and burying his face in her hair.
For a moment, this was enough.
Then, without saying anything, he eased her away and took the handle of her suitcase. Together they walked toward the airport exit and rode the shuttle to the parking lot. As he put her luggage in the trunk of the Charger, she climbed into the car and exhaled the tension that had been with her since London.
He got behind the wheel and started the car, pulling out of the parking structure. She rested her head on his shoulder and hugged his arm, closing her eyes and just breathing him in. He was so attuned to her that he allowed her to decompress without saying anything. She knew the questions would come later.
He drove them back to her house and they climbed out of the car. While he retrieved her suitcase, she went ahead, using her key to open the door and scoop Pickles up. The little dog was frantic, kissing and wriggling in her arms as she hugged him and whispered how much she’d missed him.
The warmth of her little house surrounded her and she felt a prickle of tears in her eyes. She’d missed everything about it and she was so glad to be home, so glad to be alive. She heard Marco enter behind her and set the suitcase on the floor, then he closed the door.
She moved to the couch and put Pickles on it, turning to face him.
He gave her a slow once-over. “Where are you hurt?”
She reached up and removed the sunglasses, then unwound the scarf from her neck. He moved to the couch and took a seat on the arm, resting his cane against the side of it, then he drew her between his legs.
Slowly he lifted his fingers and traced the bruises on her flesh.
“If you want to yell at me, I prepared myself for it.”
His jaw hardened and his eyes darkened, then he drew her closer and brushed his lips gently over the marks. “Just tell me the bastard’s dead.”
She tilted her head back, giving him access and closing her eyes. “He’s dead.”
He leaned away and looked at her. “You?”
“Bambi.”
“Good.”
She met his gaze. “I know you’re upset with me. I’m serious. If you want to yell at me…”
“I don’t want to yell at you.” His lips returned to her throat. “I want to make love to you. Is that acceptable?”
She tightened her hold on his shoulders. “God, yes,” she whispered breathlessly. Already he had her.
His fingers rose to the buttons on her shirt, but she stopped him, moving back just a pace. “There’s something else.”
His eyes narrowed on her.
“I have thirty stitches in my left arm.”
“What?”
“The doctor says it’ll heal perfectly. Only a slight scar.”
His hands slid down to her hips and he pushed
her away a few inches more. “Okay, plan B. We get you to bed to rest, and I’ll make you dinner.”
She moved closer to him, bringing her lips just a hairs-breadth from his. “I don’t like that plan. Let’s go back to the original one, but you just go slow. Really, really slow.”
His eyes sparkled and a faint smile touched the corners of his lips. “I can do that.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling in return. “You can.”
Then she kissed him.
THE END
Author’s Note
According to the National Institute on Mental Health (NIMH), approximately 9 million Americans, or 4.1% of U.S. adults, suffer from serious mental illness. The rate of schizophrenia is approximately 1.1% of the U.S. adult population. Education is the key to understanding and helping those suffering from mental illness. For more information, visit the NIMH website at http://www.nimh.nih.gov/index.shtml.
In the play, Hamlet by William Shakespeare, Hamlet adapts an “antic disposition” to fool his uncle and mother into thinking that he is mad and to thus hide his true intentions of avenging his father’s murder. Many scholars have debated whether Hamlet is truly mad or if, as he himself puts it, “I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw,” (Act II, Scene 2).
Perhaps most debated, however, are Hamlet’s final words to Horatio as he lay dying in his arms: “The rest is silence,” (Act V, Scene 2). After the turmoil of his soul-searching debate about whether to kill his father’s murderer, after the “madness” that he adopts to fool the murderer about his intent, and finally after the dreadful charge put on him by his father’s ghost, many scholars believe Hamlet is making a judgment about heaven and hell, finally arriving at the conclusion there is neither. That death is final and there is no God.
I, for my humble part, wonder if Hamlet’s message is a much softer one, that in his last moments, when the frantic conflict has ended, he has finally found peace.
“Good night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”
Hamlet, Act V, Scene 2
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 37
