by M. K. Gilroy
It takes me almost an hour to stop fuming about the Post-it note and get my mind fully on task. In terms of progress on the case, no one would be able to tell the difference.
Dear God, something has to give. Please give us a breakthrough.
A lot of people have all sorts of questions about God. I guess I took to heart early on that faith should be childlike—or it isn’t faith. So I don’t try to figure everything out even if I have a few specific questions, like the “once saved, always saved” debate I ponder every now and then. I’m simple-minded. I believe in God with all my heart. But right now my real question is why he doesn’t seem to hear my prayers.
49
May 16, 2:00 a.m.
CAN YOU SAY breakthrough? Everybody is talking about me now. Not just local media and an occasional mention on national outlets. The world is talking about me. And the reporters are finally getting some of the details right. I like that. I want my legacy preserved. I’m tired of writing in my journal. It doesn’t look right in pencil, and when I write in pen there are smudges. The whole thing looks like a mess. I wanted it to look neater. So I’m not going to do it anymore. I can’t let anyone read it now anyway. It’s better the way it’s unfolding, slowly. Give the media some juicy details to get everybody hot and bothered—but not enough details that they would ever be able to apprehend me. There are gaps they will never fill in.
I hate that ChiTownVlogger guy—contacting him might have been a mistake. He wants too much glory for himself. He’s a typical media hack. He thinks the story is about him. But this story is about me. He’ll get his fifteen minutes of fame and then they’ll forget him—but they’ll always remember me. I hated when he gave me the Cutter Shark name. Even if it is catchy. I have to admit, he does get results. He’s already been on Fox, CNN, and the BBC.
But I will not tolerate it if he continues to speak caustically of me. I will show him the true meaning of cutting. So if he wants any more exclusive news tidbits—and if he wants to continue breathing—he will show me the respect I deserve.
This vlogger—Allen Johnson—is one messed up individual. He has an acute sense of paranoia. He thinks the mayor got him fired and monitors all his electronic communications. But it won’t be the mayor monitoring his emails and Internet activity now. No, the FBI has to have taken on that particular task. That’s why I’ve already sent him another message via the old-fashioned route: the post office.
I’m always one step ahead.
The most important thing is I’m building my legacy and receiving some long overdue fame. I have been punished with obscurity because of my own brilliance. The only thing that will knock me from the lead spot of all news programming is if some some teenage actress gets drunk and runs over a paparazzi again.
Two weeks ago, GiGi was a perfect one-month schedule behind Sandra. But what if I decided Candace wasn’t a mulligan? That would mean I could go back to work this weekend and be perfectly on schedule.
I like the way I’m thinking! I make the rules, so I can bend them or break them. At will. Track that, FBI psychologist!
It would be good to wait for a full moon, but the pressure is building. I know myself too well. I can’t wait. And I have a date tonight . . . even if she doesn’t know it yet.
This city is going to explode when they find out who she is.
She’s going to explode when she finds out who I am!
Freedom. It is hard for average, normal, pedestrian individuals to cherish that like I do. I once was a prisoner. Now I’m free. Free to live life to the fullest. Free to soar.
50
“I TOLD YOU why I can’t go out tonight. I’ve already got a date with my adorable niece and fabulous nephew. Even if I hadn’t made plans, I’m not ready to go out two nights in a row.”
“And why would that be?”
I shift into fifth gear and drop the phone off my shoulder. I’ve got to get a hands-free earpiece. I fumble around with my right hand while keeping both eyes on the road. I’m doing seventy-five in a sixty-five zone and Saturday afternoon traffic is surprisingly heavy.
“Are you still there?” Reynolds is asking as I get the phone back up to my ear.
“I am.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Sorry, I dropped my phone. But you know what, Austin? I don’t think I’m going to answer anyway.”
“That hurts. However, you did use my first name, I believe for the first time, so I’m not going to complain.”
“I’m honored, Major.”
“Listen, I think it’s great that you’ve got your sister’s kids tonight. But you’ve got three hours before you pick them up and knowing you when you get working, you haven’t had anything to eat since you poked that bagel around your plate this morning. Meet me for a late lunch on your way home.”
“I’ve got to get cleaned up and do some housework.”
“You’ve got to eat lunch sometime. We’ll just sit down for an hour.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Keep thinking and see if this helps. There’s a great little Philly cheesesteak place near the corner of Clark and Belmont.”
“After eating a pound of cow last night, for some reason the thought of a sandwich piled with meat is not making me lean in your direction.”
“There’s a vegetarian place a couple blocks away. The Chicago Diner. Are you still thinking? Does that help?”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there, but two things.”
“Name them.”
“First, I buy my own meal. Strike that. I buy both meals. Just make sure it doesn’t go over twenty bucks between us because they don’t take credit cards and that’s all the cash I’ve got.”
“Sounds good. I like a strong, independent woman and I can eat on a budget. Been there, done that. What’s number two?”
“Forty-five minutes, tops, is all I’ve got. I have to have some down time at my place before I pick up the kids.”
“Doesn’t sound as good as number one, but you got it.”
• • •
Lunch was great. Austin is a good conversationalist and the more I relax with him, the more fun we have.
The Chicago Diner is vegetarian and organic, but that’s not the same thing as low calorie and small portions. I was in the mood for an omelet so I ordered up one with tofu bacon, caramelized onions, asparagus, olives, fresh basil, and feta “cheese.” I get after Klarissa for never finishing her food, but I left half the omelet uneaten and didn’t touch the potatoes or whole-wheat toast. I did drink one of their juice mixes with carrots and apples and wheat germ. I may wear my love beads and Birkenstocks tonight.
Agreement number two was that I had to be out of there in forty-five minutes. I should have stuck to the plan. We went twenty-five minutes over. That’s when things went downhill in a hurry. I went to pay the bill at the cash register and was a couple bucks short. Austin dropped my twenty back in my purse and pealed off a ten and a twenty from a pretty fat wallet. He told the cashier to give the change to our waitress.
As we turned toward the door, Austin put his hand lightly on the back of my shoulder, which shouldn’t have taken me by surprise, but it did. I know I stiffened and reddened a little. But I went beet red when I looked up to see Dell standing ten feet from us. His mouth was slightly open in surprise and he was still as a statue. I froze, too. I hadn’t talked to him in . . . what? Two or three weeks? He had called and left messages at least twice. I never returned either call. I finally snapped out of my shock and walked forward. Dell seemed to recover, too.
“Well, Kristen Conner, it’s good to see you again,” he said.
“Hi, Dell. How you doing?”
“Not bad? You?”
“Dell, I’m Austin,” Austin said, interrupting to introduce himself, for which I was grateful. They shook hands.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too, Dell.”
Reynolds does the same thing as Klarissa with people’s names. Repeating
them, so he remembers them. That’s why he’s a major.
As we exited the restaurant, I looked back in and Dell was sitting down at the counter. Austin wanted to know who Dell was. I told him I didn’t have time to get into that now and almost sprinted to my car. I was embarrassed. I felt like some of the muck in my life splattered on my relationship with Austin.
I didn’t feel good about myself the whole drive home. No one can make me reciprocate romantic interest—not even with my mom’s assistance—and I have no qualms with that. But I was pretty abrupt when I told Dell it was over. Maybe I could’ve done something to soften the blow. Nah. Dell made that impossible. Stop beating yourself up.
I used to think of myself as a very nice person. Christian. Caring. Interested. Ready to get involved and help. Conflict—even when it’s not your fault—has a way of making you pull back and retreat within yourself. It does for me. Plus there’s all the conflict in my life that is my fault. A lot of it is little and petty, no big biggie. But I still don’t feel good about myself.
51
I THINK YOU are supposed to vacuum before you dust. Vacuuming stirs up dust, so it undoes—at least in part—what you’ve just got done doing. That’s what Mom always told me, anyway. I always remember her words of wisdom after I’ve dusted first. Resigned, I wind up the cord on my vacuum cleaner and push it in the back corner of the small coat closet in my front hallway. The thought robs me of some of the satisfaction I feel for having a top-to-bottom clean apartment—even if I never get to the cobwebs in the corners of the crown molding.
I still feel much better than I did after seeing Dell at the Chicago Diner. Clean bathroom; clean kitchen; clean everything. I got two loads of laundry done, which is all my laundry. I’ve got a pile of warm whites on my bed. Won’t take me more than fifteen minutes to fold them and put them away. Even my desk is cleared in my second bedroom. Okay, the top right drawer will barely shut with all the junk mail and unpaid bills I’ve still got to sort through, but the clutter is out of sight. Fresh sheets are on the spare beds for the kids.
Kendra’s eight now and doesn’t want to sleep in the same room with James. James has trouble going to sleep by himself unless he’s in his own room at his own house. I’ll whisper in Kendra’s ear to lie down in the bed next to him for twenty minutes until he falls asleep. Sometimes that even works and then she runs over to my room and jumps in bed with me. Once she fell asleep before James, and I left her to sleep in the guest room with him all night. She was so hurt and distraught, she wouldn’t talk to me the whole drive back over to her house. So if she does fall asleep with James tonight, I’ll pick her up and carry her over to my bed before I drift off.
But sometimes neither kid can fall asleep. Then I let both of them come over to my bed. One of my few extravagances in life is having a king-size bed, which means there should be plenty of room for the three of us. It doesn’t quite work out in real life, however. James never stops moving. He wiggles. He tosses and turns. He gets sideways and starts using his feet to claim new territory. He is fundamentally a sprawler. I end up on the very edge of my bed, one arm draped over the side. Kendra ends up snuggled tight against my back, her breath on my neck. Sir James ends up with two-thirds of the bed.
Clothes put away, I lace up my Nikes and head out the door.
• • •
I do a fairly hard 5K run in just a little under thirty minutes. Back in my college days I could run a 10K in thirty minutes. That’s five-minute miles. Back in my college days, I barely noticed my oft-repaired right knee either. The knee is barking at me again. Is that what happens when you turn thirty?
I strip down and take a glorious fifteen-minute shower. I’m not going to have time to dry my hair if I’m going to pick the kids up at six. Doesn’t matter. It’s in the upper seventies and I’ll just pull it back in a ponytail and let the wind do whatever it wants to with it. My niece and nephew love me, regardless of what my hair looks like. I put on a jean skirt, just a little shorter than Mom and Kaylen approve of, but a couple inches longer than Klarissa, the beauty queen, wears. I pull a black cotton, sleeveless shirt over my head and look in the mirror. It used to be half a size tighter than Mom’s standards of modesty—which are pretty strict, I might add—but I notice that I really have lost weight. Maybe Lloyd had a point. I was already small up top—I think I’ve disappeared now. Looking for a serial killer for a couple months has been tougher than I thought. No wonder Major Reynolds is doing his part to try and put some meat back on my bones. He’s asking me out for mercy dates.
I grab my purse and phone and head down the stairs to my car. Two missed calls. One is from Don. That’s unusual for a Saturday. He’s a hard worker, but he is also able to separate the job from family time with Vanessa and his kids. The other is from a number that I don’t recognize. It’s not a Chicago area code.
I key in my password and listen to the first message. “Kristen, this is Don. Wanted to catch up with you before Monday. I hear you’ve figured out a way to get invited to the executive task force meetings. I’m impressed—and a little surprised—by your strategy of dating one of the big dogs. Don’t forget us little people on your way to the top. Hey, I’m kidding, so don’t get your nose bent out of shape. I do want to hear what was said, though.”
What a jerk. I know he’s joking. But sometimes when people tease, there’s some real feeling packed into it. I get accused of being paranoid, but anyone would hear a barb in his message. But it doesn’t make me as mad as the next.
“Kristen, this is Dr. Van Guten. I stopped by your cube over at CPD. You were already gone.” She paused, as if to emphasize that I should have still been at work on a beautiful Saturday afternoon if she was. “I was talking to Director Willingham and at the risk of being rude, we wanted to make sure you know that we take this business with the ChiTownVlogger very seriously. We don’t want anything that was said in today’s meeting being repeated over at CPD outside of direct task force members—or with anyone in the media. That includes WCI-TV and family members. Just in case you are wondering, this isn’t Reynolds’ call. This is straight from the deputy director. Call me on my cell if this isn’t clear or you have any questions.”
At the risk of being rude. If this isn’t clear? She’s accusing me of sharing secrets from our investigation with Klarissa?
God, I know that vengeance is yours, but I want to pop her in the mouth so bad.
• • •
I thought the kids were spending the night. Maybe they’re moving in with me for good. Both have suitcases on wheels.
“I’ll have them to church on time,” I say in response to Kaylen’s admonition that I do so for the third or fourth time. I suck it up, since to be fair, I have been late more than once.
Jimmy slams the trunk shut. The kids share a seat belt on the passenger side. Kaylen looks worried. She always looks worried when the kids get in my car.
“I’ll drive safe and slow,” I say to Kaylen with a stern voice.
She laughs and bends over and hugs my neck.
“Are you eating?” she says. “You’re getting as thin as Klarissa.”
“Same as always . . . everything in sight,” I answer.
“We’re either going to have to feed you more or you’re going to have to cut back on your crazy workouts.”
I’ve never noticed Mom’s tone of voice in her before. I hear it this time. I roll my eyes at her, blow her a kiss, and we’re off to Chuck E. Cheese’s for lukewarm pizza and a scary mechanical gorilla singing oldies.
I’m glad the top is still down. It’s too noisy to talk to the kids and I still need to cool down after hearing Van Guten’s message. I’m hoping Jimmy and Kaylen didn’t see how angry I was. I shouldn’t have listened to my voice messages before picking up my angels.
52
May 16, 7:30 p.m.
I NEED TO change plans. I don’t like that. If I had wanted something different to happen I would have planned it that way in the first place. The Cutter Shark is not
happy. And I’m not happy that I’m using that stupid name the ChiTownVlogger gave me. Bad name begets bad name. This is my story, not his.
My tool kit is carefully packed. Hypodermics—check. Axe—check. Carving knife—check. Butcher knife—check. Scalpel—check. Bolt cutter—check. Whetstone for sharpening—check. Rubber suit, nylon gloves, and boots—check. Plastic bag to discard items—check. Wet wipes—check.
Where is she? This was my special night. Mine. What about me and my feelings? She has never shown an ounce of consideration. She is all about herself. She is selfish. I hate country music, but I like the song that big-buck Okie sings, “I wanna talk about me.” Me too. I want to talk about me. And I want everyone else to talk about me too! For once.
Okay. Time for Plan B. What to do, what to do, what to do? Abort? Wait and see if she returns? Settle for someone else? I hate to settle. It’s never as satisfying.
I’m going to use Occam’s razor; when in doubt over two possible explanations, go with the simplest one. I’m in doubt as to whether I should press forward or fall back. What’s simplest? Press on. Because despite a setback that would crush the spirit of lesser individuals, I am resourceful. I am resilient—as resilient as soft supple skin. I am charming—though apparently she is immune to my charms, a deficiency for which she will be punished. But I’m out and dressed for success and I intend to have my success.
I’ve always like Occam. He was smart—and he always had a razor. My fellow man.
I have been cheated of total satisfaction. By a woman. That’s just insulting.
But I will set it right. I always do. Even if she has eluded me tonight, she has merely postponed the inevitable.
I will be coming for you, Sweetheart . . . soon.
53
I WAKE UP with a start, light streaming on my face. It’s 8:45. The kids’ Sunday school starts at 9:25. I have no idea why it doesn’t start at 9:30 or, even better on this particular morning, at ten or some other round number. I just know that it takes thirty minutes to get there and the kids are gone to the world. Kendra is one foot from the edge of the bed. She’d be all the way on the edge, but that was the space afforded to me. James is at a forty-five-degree angle, his head in the direction of the foot of the bed. He looks very comfortable. He ought to; he worked hard to get the whole bed to himself.
