I cock my head at him. "She made you angry, didn't she? She was the knowing antithesis of what you were trying to say. Your version of Satan."
He shrugs, not agreeing, but . . .
"Question, Michael. Why just women? Weren't there any men with secrets worth killing to make your point?"
He stares at me blankly, puzzled.
"What does that matter?"
I find myself at a loss for words. He doesn't see it, I realize. There it is, the blind spot, and it's willful, reflexive, and profound. Selfrevelation, I'd come to understand long ago, real, deep and personal deconstruction, was a luxury the psychopath did not have.
"One last thing, Michael. The scars on Frances's wrists--they're real. When did she try to kill herself ?"
He smiles at me, and shakes his head. "She never tried. She needed the scars to play her part. It was risky, but I got her through, with the help of God."
I stare at him. I wish, on some level, that I could muster up a look of shock, or disbelief, but I know I'm long past that. I'm reminded of something a seasoned profiler once told me, back when I was new and bright and could still be shocked: sometimes only the worst stuff is true. I stand up. Right now, I want to get out of here, I want that more than anything. I remember, though, the final thing. I turn to him and smile.
"Michael?"
"Yes?"
"Everything I just told you about my mother was a lie." I smirk.
"You really are stupid. Did you actually think I'd confess to murder?
Here? We're being videotaped, for God's sake."
I leave the room without saying another word, his curses following me. This is my thrill, the thing that widens my eyes: the suffering they feel when I deny them what they need.
"SO IT'S OVER THEN," ROSARIO says to me on the phone.
"It's over. They'll both be put to death, eventually."
She is silent, and I feel that silence, understand it. It's the silence of the unfulfilled, the unfinished sentence.
"Why doesn't it make me feel any better?" she asks me.
"You know why."
She sniffles. She is crying.
"Yes, I guess you're right."
It's not enough because her child is still dead, will always be dead, will never come back. Nothing fixes that, not ever.
"Thank you for calling me, Smoky. And for . . . well, everything."
"Good-bye, Rosario."
We hang up and I know good-bye means good-bye for good. The families of the victims don't seek me out; I am forever associated in their minds with the loss of their loved ones. Rosario is grateful, they always are, but I need to be their past, not their future. It used to bother me; I understand it much more personally now. I drive to my next stop and consider the past weeks. Have I learned anything? As much as I despise learning because of my brushes against the monsters, I also know it's one of the main things separating me from them; I can learn and change, they cannot. Secrets. They run through everything we do, everything we are. Religion calls them sins, and says they'll keep us from heaven. They can be big or small. We can hold on to them like they were bars of gold. Everyone has them.
Maybe religion has it right, but perhaps it's just a metaphor. Maybe, just maybe, we carry heaven and hell with us, right here on earth, all the time. Maybe holding on to our darkest secrets puts us in a living hell, and perhaps the relief we feel when we disclose them is a form of heaven.
*
*
*
"HI, FATHER," I SAY.
Father Yates smiles, happy to see me. The church is empty. He guides me to the first pew and asks me to sit down.
"How are you?" he asks me.
"I'm well, thanks. How are you?"
He shrugs. "Better. Some things have changed. Churches have been issued equipment to check for bugs in the confessionals. Issued with the PR edict of 'ensuring, in this age of technology, that the sacrament remains sacrosanct.' "
"Someone's going to put two and two together eventually."
"I agree. But the church is reluctant to admit its weaknesses." He grins. "Which is one of its weaknesses."
"Still not jockeying for a cardinal-ship, I see," I tease him.
"I'm not built for that kind of politics, so it's just as well."
"Yeah, me neither."
"Then I guess we'll both just continue to do what we do."
"I guess so."
"Interesting, though," he muses. "Michael Murphy said that he was about the truth, but in the end, he may do more damage to the safe haven of confession than anyone else in the history of the Catholic Church."
"He'll never see it that way, Father. Not in a million years. They can't deal with their own contradictions."
We fall silent. I look at Jesus, still paint-chipped, still suffering.
"Why are you here, Smoky?"
"I need something from you."
"What?"
I hesitate. Find Jesus again.
Am I sure about this?
"I need you to hear my confession again. It'll be brief."
He studies me for a moment and then he stands up and indicates the way to the confessional booth.
"FORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I have sinned. You know how long it's been since my last confession. I lied to a man today. It was a big lie."
"What was the nature of this lie?"
"I told him I had done something, something terrible. I later told him I had lied, that I hadn't really done what I'd said."
"But you had?"
The big question, with the big answer, the one that never leaves me. It's there with me when I wake up, when I go to sleep, as I go through my day. It played a part, I'm sure, in my career choice.
"Yes. I had actually done what I confessed to him."
"Do you want to tell me what you told him?"
"No, Father."
A pause. I can almost hear him thinking this through. I can sense his reluctance, and his suspicion.
"This thing you told him, do you think God heard it too?"
"If He exists, then it was really meant for Him, Father."
"I see. So you want to admit here that what you said was true, but you don't want to say it again."
"Something like that."
He sighs.
"Do you want to be forgiven for this thing?"
"I don't know, Father, to be honest. I just know I want to admit that it happened. That's a start, isn't it?"
"Yes, Smoky. It's a start. But I can't give you penance or absolution this way."
"Penance is under way and has been for a long time. As far as absolution goes . . . we'll have to see. I just need to know that you heard me, Father. I'm still not sure if forgiveness is a part of the picture."
I'd ask my mom, if I could.
"I heard you, Smoky. And if you ever want to tell me more, I'll listen."
"I know, Father. Thank you."
I HEAD DOWN THE HIGHWAY toward home and Bonnie and Tommy and I think of my mother. I remember her beauty, her smiles, her temper. I remember every second I spent with her, and I cherish those memories for what they are: times and places that will never exist again.
I killed my mother when I was twelve. I did it from love, true, but I've always wondered: Is that why I can understand the monsters the way I do? Because there's a little bit of monster in me too?
What do you think, God?
He remains silent, which is my continuing and basic problem with Him.
Mom?
Maybe it's my imagination, but the breeze in my hair through the car window feels like a reassuring touch, and I am, for a moment, at peace.
44
"HOW IS SHE?" I ASK.
"See for yourself," Kirby says.
The hotel room Callie chose to quit Vicodin in has seen better days. She's lived inside this room for twelve days now and it reeks of sweat and vomit. She'd refused to go to a formal treatment center, which hadn't surprised me.
"Housekeeping is going to hate us when we finally let
them clean this place up," I observe.
"I'll be sure and tip them well, honey-love, don't you worry."
Callie stands at the door of the bathroom. She's pale and she has the shadows of exhaustion under her eyes, but she looks more steady than she has so far.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Like something approaching human. Finally. I think I'll be ready to leave this hellhole tomorrow."
Kirby and I have been taking shifts with her. We've taken turns holding her while she shook and sweated and cursed. We've held her hair back while she vomited. Once, I stroked her hair while she wept at the wanting.
"Geez, about time," Kirby says. "This has really put a crimp in my sex life."
"Mine too," I say.
"Yes, yes, yes," Callie replies. "I haven't seen my man in the buff since this began either. We'll all be returning to our respective lovers soon."
"How's your back?" I ask her. "Any pain?"
She comes and sits down on the bed.
"There hasn't been any pain in my back for a long time, Smoky. The Vicodin became about the Vicodin."
"Wow, so you were a bona fide junkie, huh?" Kirby says.
"I loved my little white pills, it's true, but thankfully, I love my man more. Speaking of which--where do we stand on the wedding?"
"All systems go. Your daughter has been helping with the last details. Brady tried to slip in an invitation to your parents, but I caught it and pulled it from the pile."
"Thank you."
"I aim to please. Anyway, no worries. Everything's set. You just need to get the heck out of here, hit the gym, maybe do a little tanning . . ."
"I don't 'do tanning,' " Callie says. I'm happy to hear some of the haughtiness back in her voice. It's a good sign.
"Whatever. You want to look like the corpse bride, it's your funeral. I mean wedding."
"All redheads are pale complected," Callie protests.
"There's a difference between 'pale' and 'junkie white,' " Kirby retorts.
"Is it really that bad?" She sounds distressed.
Kirby sighs. "You're going to make me be nice, aren't you? No, it's not that bad, I'm just giving you a hard time, Callie-babe. Truth is, you look great even though you've been sweating and puking and stuff. I kind of hate you for it."
Callie smiles. "Made you feel bad, made you say it." She sticks her tongue out at Kirby.
"Bitch," Kirby observes.
There's a lull in the conversation. Callie stares down at her hands, obviously working up to saying something.
"Listen close, because you'll only hear it once," she says. "Thank you both for this. I couldn't have done it alone."
"You're welcome," I tell her.
"No problemo," Kirby chirps. "Besides, I got to see you down on your knees, praying to the porcelain god." She chortles. "Wish I could have gotten that on camera."
Callie makes a face, and more good-natured bickering ensues. I listen with half an ear, smiling in the right places. Three women, all proud, all a little damaged . . . the burden of our secrets becomes heavy so easily. We don't trust enough to share, and there are parts of us that we keep for ourselves, things our men will never know, however much we love them. Things we prefer, most of the time, not even to share with each other.
But it's nice to know, if those burdens become too great, that we have someplace to go, someone who'll listen to our whispers in their ears and take our secrets to their graves.
"I COULD GET USED TO this, babe. What do you think?"
"Finding a man who can cook is definitely easier than having to learn yourself," Bonnie agrees.
Tommy is making us an Italian dinner. The meat sauce has my mouth watering, and the smell of homemade garlic bread wafts through the house.
"My mom made me learn," he calls from the kitchen. "She said cooking for a woman is a fast way to impress her."
"Smart mom," I say.
"Yes, she is."
"When are we going to be meeting her?" Bonnie asks. I glance at Tommy.
"Why do you ask, honey?"
She rolls her eyes at me. "You must really think I'm retarded, Momma-Smoky. You guys are moving in together, right?"
I scowl. "Who told? Callie? Kirby?"
She smiles. "Give me some credit, guys."
I chew on my thumbnail, nervous. Tommy remains silent.
"Sorry, babe. We were going to tell you soon. How do you feel about that?"
This has been my final concern, the last worry. Bonnie may love Tommy, but it's been just her and me for two years now. We've built our life together. We've needed each other. I've worried how she'd feel about this change.
She walks back over to me and takes my hand. Her smile says everything I need to know.
"I think it's great. Really, really great. Besides--he can cook."
LATE AT NIGHT AND TOMMY sleeps beside me. Through that window I can see the moon again, that ageless, ancient moon. People have danced under it, fucked under it, killed under it, loved under it, died under it. The moon keeps shining; life goes on. I'm thinking about my mom. I wonder why helping her die was less of a burden to me than the abortion. It's the one secret I'd never told, not even to Matt. Now I've told it to a monster, which seems to fit my life. It's never weighed on me that much. It is something that happened, that I don't think about often.
Was it wrong?
I look for the answer, and find the only one I've ever found: I don't care.
She stopped suffering. That's all that really mattered to me, in the end.
I cried at her funeral. I haven't cried for her since. I don't cry now either, but I let myself feel her absence, just a little. I miss you, Mom. Dad was a great dad, but I was always my mother's daughter.
Tommy stirs next to me. I smile.
He's a good man, Mom. Different from Matt. Not better or worse. Just dif- ferent.
My life is messy. I realize I've been trying to put everyone away, to stuff them into their little boxes and cover them with earth. What a waste. The ghosts are there, they'll always be there, and they'll show themselves when they feel like it.
The trick is to continue without the pain of enduring. Like the moon.
It continues to shine and I tell the ghosts to go to sleep now. I turn into Tommy and let myself fall into his warmth.
Welcome back, traveler, someone whispers.
"Mom?" I mumble once before tumbling into a dreamless sleep. The moon shines on.
One Final Thing:
THE SINS
of
KIRBY MITCHELL
NEWS ITEM, LOS ANGELES:
Michael and Frances Murphy were found dead in their prison cells this morning, apparent suicides. The twin kill- ers became infamous for their recent postings of video clips on the popular user-tube website, detailing the last mo- ments and intimate confessions of more than 140 women. Michael Murphy was the spokesman for the duo. He claimed religious motives were behind the killings. His ac- tions, though supported briefly by a radical minority, were widely rejected by the Christian community worldwide. They died within a few hours of each other. The lack of suicide notes, along with the fact that the Murphys were Catholic and thus presumably against suicide, has some speculating that something more sinister occurred. This is not a theory currently being pursued by law enforcement.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CODY McFADYEN lives in California.
He is the author of Shadow Man and The Face of Death. His website is www.cody
mcfadyen.com.
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The Darker Side sb-3 Page 33
