by Meg Gardiner
Tang stood up. "Let's book. These jack-o'-lanterns give me the willies."
The jack-o'-lanterns all had perky smiling faces. "It was just a three pointer."
"No, it's these freakin' gourds. Stringy guts and those giant seeds. Make my skin crawl."
"Happy Halloween."
"And later tonight all the little hoodlums start throwing eggs."
Jo cast her a sideways glance. "Eggs scare you?"
"Revolting things. All that viscous yellow ooze . . . and they have no holes, you notice? They're unnatural." She mock-shuddered. "Worst holiday of the year."
Jo tried not to smile.
Tang picked up the anonymous note. "Don't let this get to you. These dickheads are finished. Meyer's going to be arrested as soon as she's strong enough. There's an arrest warrant out on Levon Skutlek, our friend Skunk. And Pray's safely behind bars." She put the note in her pocket. "As for the Dirty Secrets Club, they're a bunch of poseurs. The district attorney's going to move on any prosecutions they
can. And if they don't, I will. Go home, Jo. Write up your report. We've broken this." "Thanks, Amy."
Outside the hospital, Jo slung her satchel over her shoulder. The sun was brilliant, the breeze fresh. So why did she feel as though a heavy shadow was trailing her?
Jo headed for home through the late-afternoon sunlight. People on
the street seemed to bustle, as if they were hurrying to finish their business and get to the serious work of trick-or-treating, dressing up, maybe hitting the street parties in the Castro. A gigantic drag queen, tall as an Ent, came out of a dry cleaner wearing white platform go-go boots and a Borat-style mankini. Jo didn't know whether he was in costume or daywear.
The electric wires that crisscrossed the streets, like neural connectors for the city, swung in the breeze. She didn't want to go home and didn't want to examine the reasons why not. She felt exhausted and on edge.
She stopped at Java Jones. Tina was behind the counter. "Bang a Gong" was thumping on the stereo. Her sister gave her a big smile.
"Jo. Want to try a pumpkin-cinnamon latte?"
"Coffee, black." She sorted change in her palm. "I like the costume. The hatchet through your skull suits you."
Tina curtsied, and got her coffee. "You going to any parties tonight?"
She put her money on the counter. "I am a party. I'm a one-man band. Thanks."
She saw Tina raise an eyebrow.
"Smile. It's about a man," she said.
By the time she stepped outside, she was dialing Gabe's number. She heard it ring and wondered if he had call recognition, was staring
at her name on his display, deciding whether to pick up. Her chest felt tight.
Just as she was about to give up, he answered. "Quintana."
"Can we talk?"
There was a drawn silence. "I'm picking up Sophie."
She stared at a mother pushing a stroller up the hill. She wondered if she should press. "Gabe ..."
No, don't overthink. And don't let it slide.
"I'll make soup. And my neighbor's having a Halloween party later. I'm taking dip, and I bet if I brought Cheese Whiz he'd be happy for you and Sophie to join in. I can ask him."
More quiet.
"I'll go two rounds with his new monkey. Blindfolded."
Gabe laughed. The sound eased her into a smile and set her pulse pinging.
"Half an hour, okay?" he said. "We'll head home to trick-or-treat later, but if you don't mind—"
"See you at my place."
"Jo ... we don't have to talk. But I'll be there anyway."
"We do. And thanks."
Dusk comes early to San Francisco at the end of October, before the end of the working day. Its blue shadow brings out a million lights, turns the air crisp, softens the crusty edges of the city. Streets twinkle. Downtown shimmers. The Bay Area looks like a bowl of light, the water a smooth soul at the center of it, rimmed with gold. Sunset streaks the horizon, blue fading to red, a gleaming and saturated light that demands attention and tells people this is beauty.
Jo parked down the street from her house. Her shopping bags rustled as she hoisted them and locked the truck. Jack-o'-lanterns were already glowing in front windows. Ferd's balcony sported a pair of them, really sterling creepy efforts, flickering orange through twisted mouths.
She unlocked her front door, turned on the lights, and kick-started some music—the Gipsy Kings. She also dug out an old album Danny had bought, Spooky Favorites. Moaning ghosts, rattling chains, "Monster Mash"—she hoped Sophie Quintana would like it. She went into the kitchen and unloaded her groceries. She was still feeling uneasy.
A wolf was hiding in one of the back rooms of her psyche, and she wanted to keep it caged. Wanted to dodge all the riotous feelings the anonymous note, and Gabe Quintana, had riled up this afternoon.
She slammed the fridge. Avoidance, that's an excellent strategy, she told herself. Almost as good as denial. Works like a charm, till your life implodes.
She got a big wooden bowl and poured the Halloween candy into it. She looked out the patio doors at the garden. The lilacs were almost indigo in the dusk. Disquiet snaked through the base of her mind. She didn't know whether it related to Pray, the anonymous note, or the falling night.
She shook the feeling off. It was Halloween. She didn't need to feel morbid, she needed to look ghoulish. She went upstairs to find a costume.
The doorbell rang. Jo jogged down the stairs, glanced at the hallway mirror, pulled her hair again, and opened the door.
"Trick or treat..." Gabe's voice dribbled off.
Jo swung an arm. "Come in, Quintanas."
Sophie gazed up at her. "Are you a zombie?"
Her head was hanging to one side. "Zombie doctor."
"Awesome."
Jo pulled her tongue back into her mouth. "Thank you."
They came in. Sophie's brown eyes were wide with curiosity.
"How'd you get that fake arm to look like it's just hanging in the middle of your back?"
"I got an old doctor's coat and stuffed the sleeve with socks. Then I pinned a surgical glove on the end."
Gabe smiled. "Hence the three and a half fingers. The makeup suits you."
"It's Gangrene by Dior."
He took the picket sign. "I can has brayn?"
"What else does a shrink want but to get inside people's heads?"
His smile widened.
Sophie said, "Can I be a zombie, too?"
"Of course." Jo pointed her toward the kitchen. "Soup's on the stove."
Sophie skipped ahead, suddenly a sprite.
"Thanks," Gabe said. "Her mom got her a 'nonconsumerist' costume. An eggplant or something. This will save the day."
They walked into the kitchen. Jo tried to read his displeasure, but he murmured, "Never mind. At least she chose a legal plant."
Jo poured a bowl of noodle soup. When Sophie was settled at the table, she said, "Will you excuse me and your dad for a few minutes?"
Her throat was dry. Behind the ghoul makeup and kohl, she knew her face was flushed. They went out back and stood under the magnolia.
The branches shrugged in the night wind. Jo crossed her arms against the chill.
"I don't know how to start, so I'll just dive in," she said. "You threw all my assumptions overboard this afternoon."
"I didn't mean to upset you."
"Quintana. You picked me up, you slammed me down, you held on to me." She looked at him, knowing she needed to speak the truth. "Some nails hurt when you hit them on the head. What you said about the Hippocratic oath, it was like a slap."
"Jo, I shouldn't have said that."
"No, you were right. I have been hiding. After the helicopter crash, I felt guilty and ashamed."
"Why did you add that hurt to everything else that was hurting you?" he said. "Nobody blamed you for Daniel dying. Jo, if you'd stayed up on top of the cliff and never climbed down, nobody would have blamed you. You risked your own life to try. You g
ave every last ounce of courage to keep them with us."
Her throat caught. She looked down and told herself not to let tears get a foothold.
"I started disbelieving everything I'd always imagined about myself. I tried to look at myself clearly, without illusions." Which can be excruciating. "First, do no harm. I draw on that now, as my source of duty."
"I didn't mean to hurt you when I said you were hiding from the living."
"Psychological autopsies are an invaluable service. To learn about the dead, to help those left behind find out the truth about what happened to the people they loved—it's a privilege and a responsibility."
"So how come you feel like you're hiding from life? If you didn't, you wouldn't be emphasizing this to me."
When she didn't speak, he said it. "Because in forensic psychiatry there are no life-and-death decisions. There's only history."
You're part of my history, she thought. They stood close. She felt a pulse of heat between them. She felt pain, deep, and wanted a way to let it go, to say it was all right, to give up this resistance she felt.
"Gabe, you're trying to ease my pain. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I have to apologize to you. Deeply."
"That's the last thing you have to do, Mrs. Beckett."
Shit. Don't think of me as Daniel's wife, not tonight; please don't complicate it that badly. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, and the phone rang.
"I'd better get that." She went in and picked up.
Amy Tang sounded feisty. "Just thought you should know. Meyer is out of danger, so we're going to be interrogating her in the morning. Join us."
"I'll be there."
"I think she applied for the internship at the U.S. Attorney's Office because Pray already knew Callie Harding was in the Dirty Secrets Club. Meyer was hoping to get close to Callie and worm information out of her."
"I wouldn't be surprised. It's no coincidence that Meyer went to work there."
"One other thing. Pray—Perry Ames. He never rests. He's turning state's witness on a federal case, hoping to get his sentence reduced, maybe make parole."
"What?"
"He's testifying in federal court."
"Here?"
Gabe glanced her way.
"The U.S. courthouse, yeah."
"Are you going to go down and inform the judge that Pray isn't such a model prisoner?" Jo said.
"Hell, yes."
"Call Leo Fonsecca. I saw him at that courthouse two hours ago."
"Even better. He can watch me and my officers double-shackle the son of a bitch."
"What about Skunk?"
Tang went quiet. "You think he'd be stupid enough to show up in the courtroom to see his mentor?"
"He showed up at the hospital to break out his mentor's daughter."
"Holy shit."
Jo thought about it. "I don't know if Pray would ever attempt an escape, but—"
"But if he tries it, we'll be there. Damn, just let him try."
"Amy. When Skunk went to St. Francis he brought"—she peeked at Sophie—"gasoline."
"We'll form a posse. Armed bailiffs, U.S. Marshals, metal detectors, shackles—Skunk doesn't worry me." Tang's voice sprouted thorns. "I need to get on this."
"Okay, Amy."
"Beckett, we know who they are. We know where Pray is, and where Skunk wants to be. This is over."
Jo leaned against the counter. About ten thousand volts of tension began running out her fingertips and dissipating.
"I'll let you get to it." She hung up and leaned back, smiling to herself. "Go get 'em, spiky."
Gabe stood by the kitchen table, arms crossed, watching her. "You look like you just won the Undead Big Brain Sweepstakes."
"Even better."
A feeling of cool excitement flowed through her. They had Pray in a box—the hurting was finished. Feeling thankful, and lighter by the moment, she drew a breath. Maybe now she could set this worry down and instead look ahead.
She gestured to Sophie. "Come on, kiddo. Let's get you ghouly."
Halfway up the stairs, the earth cracked beneath their feet.
35
The noise rolled underneath them like a freight train. The house jerked sideways. The wall knocked Jo in the face. And bam, it slammed back the other way, as if a giant had jerked it with a chain. She lost her balance, grasped at the rail, and slid to her knees on the stairs.
"Daddy—" Sophie said.
"Cricket." Gabe grabbed her around the waist and charged back down the stairs.
The roar deepened to ferocity. Jo fought to her feet and pitched down behind them, pressing her hands against the stairway walls to keep from falling. Upstairs a hallway table crashed over. A brass vase clanged to the floor and bounced down the stairs after her, caroming off the walls.
The shaking intensified.
Sophie cried, "Daddy..."
Gabe swept her into his arms and ran down to the hall, threw open the front door, and pulled Sophie under the frame.
He turned and extended his arm. "Jo."
She staggered to the bottom of the stairs. Ahead in the hall, a glass-fronted cabinet keeled forward, hit the opposite wall, and vomited china onto the hardwood floor. Glass chimed into shards. She clawed her way over the back of the cabinet. She ran to the doorway and jammed herself in with Gabe and Sophie. She pressed her back against one side and lodged her feet against the other. The ground thundered beneath her.
Sophie was clawing Gabe's shirt. "Daddy, let's get out. Please, I want to get out."
I do, too. Jo could see the street. Parked cars were bouncing ar-rhythmically. The towering Monterey pines in the park raked back and forth. Streetlight poles heaved with them. It looked like old film footage from nuclear bomb tests—buildings, vehicles, trees, the ground hooking sideways and hauling back. The sound mowed through her bones.
She pushed her head back against the door frame. Sophie buried her face in Gabe's chest. He reached out. Jo took his hand.
Car alarms lit off all over the street. Burglar alarms joined the shrieking. In her kitchen, glass shattered. A bookshelf hammered to the floor. The wood frame of the house creaked. Then squealed. Above the roof someplace, she heard a tree branch crack. Wood and leaves racketed, and she heard one of her upstairs windows splinter as the branch speared through it.
The roar died away.
The ground stopped moving. The neighborhood kept shrieking, a bell choir of panic in dissonant keys. Jo could hear the chorus echo across the city.
"We're okay," she said.
Sophie's shoulders hupped. She let a single loud sob fall against Gabe's shirt. He stroked her hair.
"Ssh, cricket, we're safe." He glanced at Jo. "You all right?"
She nodded, but clung to the door frame. "Thank you for flying Air Beckett. Please ensure your seatbacks are upright and tray tables are stowed for landing."
He flashed her a grin. She was still squeezing his hand when the lights flickered and went out.
At the U.S. Federal Courthouse, Leo Fonsecca ventured out from the doorway of the men's room and looked up and down the hallway for damage, ready to duck if plaster came down on him. The hall looked undamaged. The dark paneling gleamed. The marble floor had returned to polished stillness. Above his head the lights swayed back and forth like incense holders at a Catholic mass, sending light and shadow swaying around in the dusk. He pressed his cell phone to his ear.
"Lieutenant, are you still there?" he said.
"Yeah." Amy Tang sounded terse. "But I'm gonna have to get off the line here in a second. Listen, Mr. Fonsecca, what I called to tell you is—aww, crap."
"Lieutenant?"
"We just lost power." Her voice veered away for a second, and he heard her calling to colleagues. "Sorry. This is about the guy who's directing the hunt for the Dirty Secrets Club. Pray. His real name is Perry Ames. He's serving a sentence at San Quentin, but he's in the courthouse there with you, testifying in a case."
"What?" Fonsecca
looked around. A couple of people peeped out of a courtroom down the hall, and a security guard came running up the stairs, checking for damage. Fonsecca waved an all-clear. "Which judge?"
"I don't know. I just wanted to alert you. Ames's accomplice is at large, and I don't know what he's got in mind."
"Okay, Lieutenant, I'll inform the marshals."
The swinging light fixtures blinked as if having a seizure, and the power cut out. The hallway dropped into darkness.
Tang kept talking. "Good. Let me know once Ames is securely back in the custody of—"
The call was cut off. Fonsecca tried to reconnect and got a network busy signal. He looked around the hallway. The window at the far end was dribbling with dim outside light. The normally well-lit Civic Center was a gray shadow with dark windows, as if it had been abandoned. He heard voices down the stairway. In the long hallway he could barely see his own hands.
He went in search of a U.S. Marshal.
The courtroom hollowed into complete darkness. It was window-less, and the light simply vanished, sucked away, and turned them all blind. There was a commotion, all the lemmings in the room going skittish.
The judge whacked her gavel, a stupid sound in the dark, but it cut through the fussing. "Just stay calm. The emergency lights will come on in a few seconds."
Perry was on the witness stand. The prosecutor had been questioning him. Now he put his hands on the wooden rail.
His nerves spitfired. He could sit here, wait for the lights to come on, keep testifying, hope the prosecutor had the juice to influence the parole board about his release date. He could play nice, and go back to his six-foot-wide cell in North Block at Quentin, and wait to find out if the law played nice with him.
Or not. He shut his eyes and visualized the courtroom. The bench, the court reporter's chair. Jury box. Prosecution and defense tables, with the gate and aisle through the gallery straight behind them.
Then the door.
Perry opened his eyes. He slid sideways out of the witness box and cut like a snake through the courtroom.
The judge cracked her gavel again. "Everybody stay where you are. Bailiff, secure the prisoner."
Everybody ignored her. He went out right behind a bunch of lawyers.
"On three."
