I get into my car, and I realize that I had been right last night. Today had been the day. I wasn't going to go home and blow my brains out. How could I? I couldn't even pick up my gun.
8
I HAVE A terrible night, a kind of Greatest Hits of bad dreams. Joseph Sands is there in his demon suit, while Matt smiles at me with a mouth full of blood. This morphs into Callie at the Subway shop, looking up from her sad piece of paper, pulling out her gun, and shooting the Subway lady through the head. She then goes back to slurping on her straw, but her lips are too red and too full, and she catches me watching and gives me a wink like a corpse closing one eye. I wake up, shivering, and realize that my phone is ringing. I look at my clock. It's five in the morning. Who'd be calling now? I haven't gotten any early-morning calls since I went on leave. I can still feel the dream bouncing around inside my head, but I push the images away and take a moment to stop shivering before I grab the phone.
"Hello?"
There's a silence at the other end. Then Callie's voice. "Hi, honeylove. Sorry to wake you, but . . . we have something that concerns you."
"What? What's happened?" She doesn't speak for a minute, and I'm getting pissed off. Little shivers still spasm through me as I hold the phone. "Dammit, Callie. Tell me."
She sighs. "Do you remember an Annie King?"
My voice is incredulous. "Remember her? Yeah, I remember her. She's one of my best friends. She moved to San Francisco about ten years ago. We still talk on the phone every six months or so. I'm her daughter's godmother. So yeah, I remember her. Why?"
Callie is silent again. "Damn," I hear her whisper. She sounds like she was punched in the stomach. "I didn't know she was a friend. I thought she was just someone you used to know."
I feel dread filling me. Dread, and knowledge. I know what's happened, or at least I think I do. But I need to hear Callie say it before I will believe it. "Tell me."
A long sigh of surrender, then: "She's dead, Smoky. Murdered in her apartment. The daughter's alive, but she's catatonic."
My hand has gone nerveless with shock, and I'm in danger of dropping the phone. "Where are you now, Callie?" My voice sounds small to me.
"At the office. We're getting ready to go to the scene, going on a private jet in an hour and a half."
I sense something through my shock, a heaviness at Callie's end. I realize that there's something else she's not telling me.
"What is it, Callie? What are you holding back?"
A hesitation, and then she sighs again. "The killer left a message for you, honey-love."
I sit for a moment, silent. Letting these words sink in. "I'll meet you at the office," I say. I hang up before she can respond. I sit on the edge of my bed for a moment. I put my head into my hands and try to weep, but my eyes stay dry. Somehow, it hurts more that way.
It's only six o'clock by the time I arrive. Early morning is the best time to drive in LA, the only time the highways are uncrowded. Most of the people driving are up to no good, or on their way to no good. I know these early mornings well. I've driven through fog and the gray light of breaking dawns many times, toward scenes of bloody death. As I am now. All the way there, all I can think about is Annie. Annie and I met in high school, when we were both fifteen. She was a soon to be ex-cheerleader, I was a reckless tomboy who smoked pot and enjoyed fast things. In the hierarchy of high school, our paths were not destined to cross. Fate intervened. At least I always thought of it as fate. My time of the month arrived in the middle of math class, and I had put up my hand, grabbed my purse, and rushed out the door to the bathroom. I was blushing as I went down the hallway, and hoping that no one else was there. I had been getting my period for only eight months, and the whole thing was still an excruciating embarrassment to me. I peeked in, saw with relief that the bathroom was deserted. I ducked into one of the stalls and was preparing to take care of my problem when a sniffling sound made me freeze, pad in hand. I held my breath, listening. The sniffling repeated itself, only this time, it broke into a quiet sob. Someone was crying, two stalls over from me. I have always been a sucker for things in pain. When I was young, I even considered being a veterinarian. If I came upon a hurt bird, dog, cat, or any other walking, crawling, living thing, it would end up coming home with me. Most of the time, the things I brought home didn't make it. But sometimes they did, and the few victories in this regard were enough to keep my crusade alive. My parents thought it was cute at first, but it went from cute to annoying after the umpteenth trip to the emergency vet. Annoyed or not, they never discouraged me from these Mother Teresa-like efforts.
As I got older, I found that this concern extended to people as well. If someone got bullied, while I wouldn't step in and rescue them from the fight, I couldn't keep myself from going over afterward to see how they were. I kept a small first-aid kit in my backpack and handed out any number of bandages during the eighth and ninth grades. I was not self-conscious about this quirk in my character. It was a strange thing: I was mortified by having to leave in the middle of class to handle menstruation, but no amount of teasing, or being called "Nurse Smoky,"
ever bothered me. Not even a little. I know that this characteristic is what led me to the FBI. The decision to go after the source of pain, the criminals who enjoyed causing it. I also know that what I saw in the years that followed changed it in some way. I became more careful with my caring. I had to. My first-aid kit became me and my team, and the bandages became a pair of handcuffs and a jail cell. This being the case, when I realized that someone was crying in the bathroom with me, I placed my pad as a hurried afterthought, all embarrassment forgotten, pulled up my jeans, and rushed out of the stall. I paused in front of the door the sobs were coming from.
"Uh--hello? Are you okay in there?"
The sobs stopped, though the sniffles were still audible.
"Go away. Leave me alone."
I stood there for a second, trying to decide what to do.
"Are you hurt?"
"No! Just leave me alone."
I realized that there wasn't any pressing physical injury to attend to, and I was about to take the voice's advice when something stopped me. Fate. I leaned forward, tentative. "Um, listen . . . any way I can help?"
The voice was forlorn when it responded. "No one can help." There was a silence, followed by another one of those awful, poignant sobs. No one can cry like a fifteen-year-old young woman. No one. It is done with all of the heart, nothing held back, the end of existence.
"Come on. It can't be that bad."
I heard a scuffling sound, and then the door to the stall slammed open. Standing in front of me was a puffy-faced, very pretty blond girl. I recognized her right away and wished I'd listened when she first asked me to leave. Annie King. She was a cheerleader. One of those girls. You know, the snobby, perfect ones who use their beauty and flawless bodies to rule the kingdom of high school. I couldn't help it, that was what I thought at the time. I had her pigeonholed and judged, the same way I hated being judged myself. And she was mad.
"What do you know about it?" It was a voice filled with fury, and it was directed at me, full on. I stared at her, caught flat-footed and flabbergasted, too astonished to be angry back. Then her face crumpled, and the rage vanished faster than it had appeared. Tears ran down her face. "He showed everyone my panties. Why would he do something like that, after everything he said to me?"
"Huh? Who--what about your panties?"
Sometimes, even in high school, it's easiest to talk to a stranger. She talked to me then, while it was just the two of us in that bathroom. The quarterback of the football team, a David Rayborn, had been dating her for almost six months. He was handsome, smart, and seemed to really care about her. He'd been pushing her for a few months to go "all the way," and she'd been resisting his advances. But he'd been so sincere in his romance of her that a few days ago she'd finally given in. He'd been gentle, and caring, and when it was over he'd held her in his arms and asked her if he could keep h
er panties to remember the moment by. He said it would be a little secret between them, something they knew but no one else did. A little naughty, but also kind of nice. Somehow romantic. Looking back at it now, as an adult, it seems silly to think of it in that way. But when you are fifteen . . .
"So today I'm walking off the field after practice, and they're all there. The guys from the team. David is with them, and they're all pointing at me, and hooting and making these nasty faces. Then he did it." Her face crumpled again, and I winced, realizing what was coming.
"He held them up. My panties. Like a trophy. And then he smiled at me, winked, and said it was the best addition to his collection yet."
And this cheerleader started crying again, except that now she gave herself over to it in the fullest sense of the word. Her knees gave, and she fell against me, and she was weeping like her heart was broken and would never be whole again. I hesitated for a moment (but only a moment), and then I wrapped my arms around her and held her as she cried. Right there on the tile, I hugged this stranger and whispered into her hair, told her it'd be okay.
After a few minutes, the sobs died down to sniffles, and then the sniffles stopped as well. She pushed off me and wiped her face. She couldn't look at me, and I realized she was a little embarrassed.
"Hey, I have an idea," I said. It was a from-the-hip decision, unexplainable, but somehow undeniably right. "Let's get out of here. Cut the rest of the day."
She looked at me, and squinted. "Play hooky?"
I nodded and smiled. "Yep. Just a day. I think you've earned it, don't you?"
I've always thought her decision in response was probably as sudden as mine had been in asking her. I mean, she didn't even know my name at that point. She smiled back at me, a slight smile.
"Okay."
That's how we met. She smoked her first joint that day (something I introduced her to), and about a week later she quit being a cheerleader. I'd like to say that we got revenge on David Rayborn, but we never did. Despite his reputation as an asshole, girls continued to fall for him, and he continued to take their panties as trophies. He went on to become a star quarterback, which continued through college and even a few seasons second-stringing for an NFL team. One could say this was proof of no justice in the world, but you could also say that he brought Annie and I together, something that was to have such beauty and value that I could almost forgive him for what he did. We'd bonded at the molecular level, the way only combat soldiers and teenagers do. We spent all of our time out of school together. She encouraged me to quit smoking pot, advice I followed, since my grades had been dropping. I got her to start dating again. She was there for me when Buster, the dog I'd had since I was five years old, had to be put to sleep. I was there for her when her grandmother died. We learned to drive together and spent time getting into and out of scrapes, growing up, becoming women.
Annie and I shared one of the most intimate relationships a person can have: friendship while you go from child to adult. The types of experiences and memories you take with you through life, all the way to the grave.
What happened after was what happens all the time. We graduated from high school. I was with Matt by then. She'd met a guy and decided to ride around the country with him before going to college. I didn't wait and went straight to UCLA. We did what everyone does, swore to stay in touch twice a week and forever, and then did what everyone does, got caught up in our own lives and didn't speak for nearly a year. One day I was walking out of class . . . and there she was. She looked wild, and beautiful, and I felt joy and pain and longing twang through me like a chord plucked from a Gibson guitar.
"How's things, college girl?" she asked, eyes twinkling. I didn't respond, but I gave her one hell of a long hug. We went out to lunch, and she told me all about her adventures. They'd traveled through fifty states on almost no money, seen and done a lot, had enough sex in enough different places to last a lifetime. She smiled a secret smile, and then placed her hand on the table.
"Check it out," she said.
I looked, saw the engagement ring, gasped like I was supposed to, and we giggled and talked about the future, about the plans for her wedding. It was like being back in high school.
I was her maid of honor, and she was mine. She moved up to San Francisco with Robert, while Matt and I stayed in LA. Things drifted, but we'd always manage to find time every six to eight months to place a call, and whenever we did, we were back there again, that first day we'd played hooky, free and young and happy.
Robert was a flake, who eventually left her. Some years later, I ran a background check on him, hoping to find that he was failing and miserable in his life. I found instead that he had died in a car accident. Why Annie had never shared this with me, I still don't know. When I started working for the Bureau, and by that I mean really working, the time between calls drifted to a year. Then a year and a half. I agreed to be her daughter's godmother but am ashamed to say that I met her child only once, and she never met mine. What can I say? Life moved on, the one thing it always does.
Some might judge that. I don't care. All I know is that whether it was six months or two years, whenever we talked, it was like no time had passed at all.
About three years ago her father died. I went up there right away and stayed for over a week, helping. Or trying to. Annie was older and drained and full of pain. I remember being struck by a single irony: Her agony and her age had made her more beautiful than ever. The night after the funeral, after she'd put her daughter to bed, we sat on the floor of her bedroom, and she cried in my arms while I whispered into her hair. I did not hear from her when Matt died, but I didn't wonder about this. Annie had this quirk: She abhorred the news, whether in print or on TV, and I never called to tell her what happened. I still don't know why. I thought about Annie on my way to the Bureau offices. I thought and I wondered at my reaction to her death. I felt sad. Devastated even. But it didn't seem as monumental, emotionally, as it should be. I've just arrived, and I just realized that I've lost all of my youth now. The love of my youth, the friend of my youth. It's all gone. Maybe losing Matt and Alexa was just too much. Maybe that's why I don't feel as much as I think I should about Annie.
Maybe I just don't have any more pain to give.
"What the hell are you doing here, Smoky?"
It's SAC Jones, my old sponsor. Except now he's Assistant Director Jones. I'm surprised to find him here. It's not that he's not dedicated or hesitates at stepping into the trenches; it's that he simply doesn't need to be here, and his dance card is never empty. What's so urgent about this case?
"Callie called me, sir. She told me about Annie King and mentioned that the killer left a message for me. I'm going with."
He shakes his head. "Oh no you're not. No fucking way. Aside from the fact that she's your friend, which means you can't touch this case with a ten-foot pole, you are not cleared to go back to work."
Callie is trying to eavesdrop, and Jones notices this. He gestures me toward his car, lighting a cigarette as we walk. Everyone's out in front of the Bureau offices, getting ready to head to the Van Nuys private airport. He takes a deep drag and I watch him, wistful. I forgot to bring my own.
"Can I have one of those, sir?"
His eyebrows arch in surprise. "I thought you quit."
"I took it up again."
He shrugs and gives me the pack. I pull out one of the cigarettes, and he lights it for me. I, too, take a nice, long puff. Yum.
"Listen, Smoky. You know how it goes. You've been around long enough. Your shrink keeps the content of what you guys talk about in complete confidence. But he does submit a report, once a month, giving an overview of where he thinks you're at."
I nod. I know this is true. I don't take it as any kind of violation. It's not about privacy or rights. It's about whether or not I can be trusted to represent the FBI. Or hold a gun.
"I got a report yesterday. He says you still have a ways to go and are not ready to go back to work. Period. Now y
ou show up at six in the morning and want to go to the scene of a murdered friend?" He shakes his head, vehement. "Like I said: no fucking way."
I draw on the cigarette, weighing it in my fingers as I watch him, and try and figure out what to say. I realize that I know why he's here. Because of me. Because the killer wrote to me. Because he's worried.
"Look, sir. Annie King was my friend. Her daughter is still alive up there. She's got no other family, her dad's dead, and I'm her godmother. I'd be flying up there anyway. All I'm asking the Bureau for is the courtesy of a ride."
He draws smoke down the wrong pipe at this, and actually sputters.
"Puh-leeeze! Nice try, but who the fuck do you think you're talking to, Agent Barrett?" He stabs a finger at me. "I know you better than that, Smoky. Don't bullshit me. Your friend is dead--and I'm sorry about that, by the way--and you want to go up and get yourself on the case. That's the truth. And I can't allow it. One, you're personally involved, and that excludes you from the get-go. That's straight from the manual. Two, you're probably suicidal, and I can't allow you to step in the middle of a crime scene in that condition."
My mouth hangs open. Then my words are filled with fury and shame. "Jesus Christ! Do I have a sign hanging from my neck that says I've thought about killing myself ?"
His eyes soften at this. "Nah, no sign. It's just that we all know we'd think about it if any of us experienced even half of what you did." He tosses the cigarette to the pavement and doesn't look at me when he continues speaking. "I thought about smoking on my gun, once."
As with Callie at lunch yesterday, I am speechless. He catches this and nods. "It's true. I lost a partner, about twenty-five years ago, when I was on the LAPD. Lost him because I made a bad decision. I led us into a building without backup, and it was more than we could handle. He paid the price. Family man, beloved husband and father of three. It was my fault, and I thought about correcting that inequity for almost eight months." He looks at me, and there's no pity in his gaze. "It's not that you have a sign hanging from your neck, Smoky. It's that most of us think we would have blown our brains out by now if we were in your position."
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