Right now, though, the chatter of gunfire is absent, and silence rules. Time to use that silence, like a good soldier. I get up and leave the office myself, locking the door behind me, heading down the elevator. On the way down, I realize that my silence is different from the silence of the average, everyday person. It's an opportunity to rest, true. But it's a silence filled with tension and waiting. Because you never know when the gunfire will start up again.
Are Jack Jr. and friend doing the same thing right now? Resting up before their next murder?
When Alan answers the door, I go on alert. He looks upset, enraged, fighting tears and the desire to murder at the same time.
"That motherfucker, " he hisses.
"What?!?" I ask, alarmed, brushing into the house past him. "Is Elaina all right? Bonnie?"
"No one's hurt, but that fucker . . ." He stands there for a moment, clenching his fists. If he was not my friend, I'd be terrified. He rushes over to an end table, picks up a legal-size manila envelope, hands it to me. I look at the front. It's addressed, To Elaina Washington: R.I.P. I go cold.
"Look inside," Alan growls.
I open it up. There's a typed note, clipped to a series of pages. When I look at the pages, I understand.
"Shit, Alan . . ."
"Her fucking medical history," he says, and begins pacing back and forth. "All about the tumor, the doctor's notes." He grabs the packet from me, flips a few pages. "Look at this part that he highlighted for her!"
I take it back from him and read what he'd indicated. Mrs. Washington is stage two, bordering on a stage three. Outlook good, but must ensure the patient understands that full stage three still possible, though un- likely.
"Read his fucking note!"
I look at it, see the familiar salutation.
Greetings, Mrs. Washington!
I wouldn't call myself a friend of your husband. More of a . . . busi- ness acquaintance. I thought you'd appreciate knowing the truth about your current situation.
Do you know what the survival rates are for stage three, dearie? I quote: "Stage III: Metastasis to lymph nodes around the colon, a 35-60
percent chance for five-year survival."
Goodness! If I was a betting man, I'm afraid I'd have to bet against you!
Best of luck--I'll be keeping an eye on your progress!
From Hell,
Jack Jr.
"Is this true, Alan?"
"Not the way he put it, no," he snarls. "I called the doctor. He said that if he was really concerned about it, he would have said so. He wasn't withholding anything. Shit, the note was written to remind himself what to tell us during her next visit."
"But Elaina saw it as written, with no explanation."
I get the answer from the misery in his eyes.
I turn away from him for a moment, putting a hand to my forehead. An almost blinding rage has flared up inside me. Of all the people he could hurt, other than Bonnie, Elaina is perhaps the most undeserving. I remember this morning, the way her presence alone broke through Bonnie's barriers. I remember her with me, in the hospital. I want to kill Jack Jr. He continues to gain access to our lives, to the personal parts of us. Bugs in Hillstead's office to get to me. Now what? Breaking into a hospital to get Elaina's medical records?
What else does he know?
I turn to Alan. "How is she?"
He takes a sudden seat in an easy chair. Looks lost. "First she was scared. Then she started crying."
"Where is she?"
"Up in the bedroom, with Bonnie." He gives me a tired look. "Bonnie won't leave her side." He puts his head in his hands. "Goddammit, Smoky . . . why her?"
I sigh, and move to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Because they knew it would hurt you like this, Alan."
His head snaps up, eyes filled with fire. "I want these fuckers so bad."
"I know." Boy, do I. "Listen, Alan. I know it probably won't help . . . but I don't think Elaina's in any physical danger from Jack Jr. and company, at least not right now. I don't think that's the purpose of this."
"What makes you say that?"
I shake my head, thinking about what Callie had said earlier today.
"This is a part of their game. They want us to hunt them. And they wants us at our best. To give us a personal stake in this."
His face grows grim. "It's working."
I nod. "No shit."
He leans back, sighs. The sigh is belly-deep and full of sadness. He looks up at me, eyes pleading. "Can you go up and see her?"
I touch his shoulder. "Of course I can."
I dread it, but of course I can.
*
*
*
I knock on the bedroom door, open it, and peek my head in. Elaina is lying on her side, back to me. Bonnie is sitting next to her, stroking her hair. Bonnie looks at me as I enter, and I stop. Her eyes are full of fury. We stare at each other for a moment, and I nod in understanding. They'd hurt her Elaina. She was mad.
I move around the bed, sitting down on its edge. The memory of the hospital flies into my mind. Elaina's eyes are open, staring off at nothing. Her face is puffy from tears. "Hey," I say. She glances up at me. Goes back to looking at nothing. Bonnie keeps stroking her hair.
"Do you know what upsets me the most, Smoky?" she says, breaking the silence.
"No. Tell me."
"That Alan and I never had children. We tried and tried and tried, but it just never happened. Now I'm too old, and I have to deal with cancer." She closes her eyes, opens them. "And this man gets to invade our lives. Gets to laugh at us. At me. Make me afraid."
"That's what he's trying to do."
"Yes. And it worked." Silence. "I would have made a good mom, don't you think, Smoky?"
My face twists. I'm horrified by the depth of Elaina's pain. It's Bonnie who answers her question. She taps on Elaina's shoulder, and Elaina turns her head to look at her. Bonnie makes sure she's watching, and then she nods.
Yes, she's saying. You would have made a wonderful mom. Elaina's eyes go soft. She reaches out to touch Bonnie's face. "Thank you, sweetheart." Silence. She looks at me. "Why is he doing this, Smoky?"
Why did he do it, why is he doing it, why did this happen? Why my daughter, my son, my husband, my wife? This is the unending question from victims. "The short answer is that he likes hurting you, Elaina. That's the simple motivation. The other side of it is that he knows it'll make Alan afraid. That makes him feel powerful. And he likes that very much."
Of course, I know there isn't really a good answer to that unending question. Why me? I'm a good mother/father/brother/daughter/son. I keep my head down, do my best. Sure, I lie a little, but I tell the truth more than I lie, and I love the people in my life the best I can. I try to do more right than wrong, and I'm happier when there are more smiles than pain. I'm no hero; I'm not going to end up in any history books. But I'm here, and I matter. So why me?
I can't tell them what I really think. Why? Because you breathe and walk, and because evil does exist. Because the cosmic dice were rolled and you came up short. God either forgot about you that day, or it's a part of His master plan, pick your belief. The truth is, bad things are going to happen somewhere, every single day, and today was just your turn. Some people might call that a bleak or cynical outlook. To me, it's what keeps me sane. Otherwise you start thinking that maybe it's the bad guys who have the edge. I prefer to think, Nope. No edge. The simple fact is that evil preys on good, and today, good had a bad day. Which brings with it an acceptance of the other side of that argument, that tomorrow might be evil's turn for some rain. And that's called hope. None of this is helpful when they ask why, so I tell them some lesser truth like the one that I just gave Elaina. Sometimes it eases their pain, sometimes it doesn't. Usually it doesn't, because the fact is, if you have to ask the question, then you don't really care about the answer. She mulls this over. When she looks back at me, I see an unfamiliar emotion on her face. Anger. "Get this man, Smoky. Do you he
ar me?"
I swallow. "Yeah."
"Good. I know you will." She sits up. "Now, can you do me a favor?"
"Anything." I mean it. If she asked me to pull a star down from the sky right now, I'd do my best.
"Tell Alan to come up here when you go down. I know him. He's sitting there blaming himself. Tell him to knock it off. I need him."
Shaken but back as strong as ever. I realize afresh something I've known for a long time: I love this woman. "I will." I turn to Bonnie.
"Let's go, sweetheart."
She shakes her head. No. Pats a hand on Elaina's shoulder, then grips it, possessive. I frown. "Honey, I think we need to leave Elaina and Alan alone tonight."
She shakes her head again, fierce now. No way, Jose.
"It would be fine with me for her to stay, if you don't mind. Bonnie's lovely."
I look at Elaina, dumbfounded. "Are you sure?"
She reaches over, strokes Bonnie's hair. "I'm sure."
"Well . . . okay." Besides, I think to myself, it would take a miracle to pry her away from Elaina right now. "Then I'll go. Bonnie, I'll come see you in the morning, honey."
She nods. I head out the door, turn as I hear small footsteps behind me. Bonnie has gotten off the bed and is looking up at me. She snags my arm, pulls me down to her level. Her face is filled with concern.
"What, honey?"
She pats herself, reaches over and pats me. Does this again, insistent. And again, the concern growing on her face. Then I get it. It makes my face flush, my eyes prick with tears. I'm with you, she's saying. I'm only staying here to help Elaina. But I'm with you. She wants to make sure I understand. Yes, Elaina is Mom. But I'm with you.
I don't speak. Instead, I nod in reply and hug her to me before leaving the room. Downstairs, Alan is standing and staring out the window at the coming dusk.
"She's going to be okay, Alan. She wanted me to tell you to stop blaming yourself and that she needs you. Oh, and you have Bonnie for tonight. She refused to leave Elaina."
This seems to perk him up. "Really?"
"Uh-huh. She's being very protective." I poke him in the chest. "You know I sympathize, Alan. You know I do. But you need to get your ass up there and hug your wife." I smile. "Bonnie's got your back."
"Yeah," he says, after a space of time. "You're right. Thanks."
"No problem. And, Alan? If you need time off tomorrow, take it."
His face is somber. "No fucking way, Smoky. They got what they wanted. I'm after those motherfuckers till they're caught or dead." He smiles, and this time, it's a scary smile. "I think they're going to get more than they bargained for."
"Damn right," I reply.
30
THE DRIVE BACK feels lonely. Keenan and Shantz are where they should be, with Bonnie, so I really am alone. It's dark out, and highways at night have a distinct, isolated feel to them. At times in my life this has been a welcome feeling. This isolation is filled with angry thoughts, sadness, and me gripping the steering wheel, imagining it's Jack Jr.'s neck. The moon shines strong. Somewhere in me, I know it's a beautiful light. Tonight, it reminds me of the times I've seen blood pooled in the moonlight. Black and reflective and final.
I ride through the moonlight that reminds me of blood all the way home. I'm pulling into the driveway when my cell phone rings.
"It's James."
I sit straight up. There is something in his voice I've never heard before. "James? What is it?"
His voice is trembling. "Those--those motherfuckers!"
Jack Jr.
"Tell me what happened, James."
I can hear his breathing over the phone. "I got to my mom's house about twenty minutes ago. I was going up to knock on the door when I noticed an envelope was taped to it. It had my name on it. So I opened it up." He takes a deep breath. "It had a note in it, and--and . . ."
"What?"
"A ring. Rosa's ring."
Rosa was James's sister, the one who had died. The one whose grave he was going to visit tomorrow with his mother. A dark understanding is starting to flutter in the back of my mind. "What did the note say, James?"
"Just one line. Rosa, no longer R.I.P. "
I feel a plummeting sensation in my stomach.
James's voice is desperate. "The ring in that envelope, Smoky? We buried her with it. Do you understand?"
The fluttering is becoming noisier, like bats' wings. I don't respond.
"So I called the cemetery. Got hold of security. And they went out and verified it."
"Verified what, James?" I think I know, but I ask because I hope I'm wrong. The bats' wings are in full roar now.
He takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is breaking. "She's gone, Smoky. Rosa. Those fuckers dug up her grave."
I lay my forehead against the steering wheel. The fluttering is silent now. "Oh, James . . ."
"Do you know how old she was when that scumbag murdered her, Smoky? Twenty. Twenty and she was smart and kind and beautiful and it took him three days to kill her. That's what they told me. Three days. You know how long it took my mother to stop crying about it?" Now he screams. "Never!"
I sit up. My eyes are still closed. I know what it is that I hear in James's voice that is so foreign. Grief. Grief and vulnerability. "I don't know what to say. Are you . . . do you want me to come over? What do you want to do?" My words echo how I feel inside. Helpless. There's a long silence, followed by a ragged sigh. "No. My mother's upstairs, curled up and sobbing and pulling at her hair. I need to go to her, I need to . . ." He trails off. "They're doing what they said they were going to do."
I feel empty. "Yeah." I tell him about Elaina.
"Son of a bitch!" he shouts. I can almost feel him struggling to get himself under control. "Motherfucker." More silence. "I'll handle it. Don't come over. I have a feeling you'll be getting another phone call tonight."
My stomach flutters. He said he was going to make each of us lose something. He still has Leo to go.
"I want this scumbag, Smoky. I want him bad."
I've heard these words, in different ways, two other times today. The thought of hearing them again fills me with both anger and despair. I manage to keep my voice even. "Me too, James. Go help your mom. Call me if you need me."
"I won't need you."
So much for grief and vulnerability.
He hangs up and I sit in my car in my driveway, looking up at the moon. For a minute, just a minute, I'm consumed by one of those selfish, self-absorbed moments only life-or-death leadership positions can bring. These people are my responsibility. I feel that I am failing them, but in this selfish moment, I don't worry about their well-being--I only wish that it wasn't my responsibility.
I grip the steering wheel, and I twist it hard.
"It is your responsibility," I whisper, and the selfishness goes away, replaced by white-hot hate.
So I do something I've done before: I scream inside my car, pounding the steering wheel, under the fucking moon. Smoky therapy.
31
WHEN I GET inside, I dial Leo's cell number. It rings and rings.
"Goddammit, Leo, pick up!" I snarl.
Then he does. His voice sounds tired and dead, and my heart sinks.
"Hello?"
"Leo! Where are you?"
"I'm at the vet with my dog, Smoky."
The normality of this lifts my hopes, for just a moment.
"Someone cut off all his legs. I have to put him down." I stand, gaping. Poleaxed. Then his voice breaks. The clean, poignant break of a china plate hitting brick. "Who would do something like that, Smoky?
I got home and he was there in the living room, trying to . . . trying to . . ." His grief makes him sound like he is gagging, as he finds the words. "Trying to crawl to me. There was blood everywhere, and he was making these awful sounds, like . . . like a baby. Looking at me with those eyes, it was like . . . he looked like he thought he'd done something wrong. Like he was asking me, 'What, what did I do wrong? I'll fix it
, just tell me. See? I'm a good dog.' "
Tears track down my cheeks.
"Who would do something like that?"
If he really thought about it, he'd know who. What he's really saying is that no one should exist who could do this. "Jack Jr. and friend, Leo. That's who."
I hear him gasp, and it is filled with agony. "What?"
"They either did it or had someone do it. But it was them."
I sense him putting it all together. "What they said in that e-mail . . ."
"Yeah." Yes, Leo, I think. They do exist, and what they did to your dog, that was nothing to them.
A long, hard silence. I can imagine his thoughts. My dog was tortured because of who I am. Guilt coming home to roost, debilitating and awful. He clears his throat, a miserable sound. "Who else, Smoky?"
So I take a breath and I tell him. About Elaina and James. Omitting the specifics of Elaina's illness. He's quiet when I'm done. I wait him out.
"I'll be fine." It's a short statement, and full of lies. But he's letting me know he understands.
I say the phrase again, the one I'm growing to hate. "Call me if you need me."
"Yeah."
I hang up and stand there for a moment in my kitchen, forehead in one hand. I can't get that picture out of my mind. Those pleading eyes. What did I do wrong . . . ? And the answer is a terrible one, all the more terrible because the dog will die never knowing the truth. Nothing. You did nothing wrong.
"They're really turning up the volume," Callie says.
"Yeah. I wanted you to know. Be careful."
"Both ways on that, honey-love."
"Don't worry."
After hanging up, I go to the kitchen table, sit down, put my head in my hands. This has been the worst day in a long time. I feel beaten up and I feel sad and I feel empty. I also feel alone. Callie had her daughter, Alan had Elaina. Who did I have?
So I cry. It makes me feel silly and weak, but I do it because I can't help it. It goes on long enough that it makes me feel angry, and I wipe my face with my hands, willing the weakness away. "Stop with the pity party already," I growl to myself. "Fact is, this is your own fault. You wouldn't let them come and be with you when you were hurting, so if you want to blame anyone, blame yourself."
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