Levi exaggerated a sigh. “Exactly. Now you’re thinking, Detective.”
“Because she’s … in on it?” When I conjured McKinnon’s face, the cinnamon freckles splashed on either side of her elegant nose, I just couldn’t imagine it. But it seemed no more unlikely than my mother, the psychologist. Or my father, the murderer. “There’s no evidence of that.”
“Cop’s instinct,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Or paranoia.”
He laughed. “Same difference.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong.” Or right, I added silently as I followed him outside.
The last building at Green River Trucking—door number three—loomed across the field of weeds. It was long enough to hold an entire semi and equipped with a garage door. Levi thought it served as a maintenance shed. Outside, the discarded innards of an 18-wheeler: a few gutted bucket seats, four rusty hubcaps, and a weathered steering wheel. “It’s like a truck graveyard,” I said.
I waited for Levi to respond with a smart remark—let’s hope it’s not our graveyard—or at the very least, shush me, but he didn’t. He beckoned me over to the wall by the entrance, where he pressed himself still and flat as a lizard. Then he touched his ear. Listen.
Faint at first, muffled by a rumbling engine, the sounds became voices when I leaned closer. Voices I recognized. Kidnapper and victim. Psychologist and patient. Mother and father.
“ … don’t understand why you lied about that. Of all things.”
“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain, Clare. You just sent me out there to the wolves.”
“What was I supposed to do? And Dumas, was that a lie too?” Next to me, Levi tensed, waiting for the answer.
“No, I swear I didn’t do it. Briggs made it all up. Big surprise. That guy would’ve said anything to get in your pants. And he did, didn’t he?” A long time passed with nothing but the low growl of the truck and the whir of the bugs in the tall grass. “Is that why you didn’t tell me about our daughter? You didn’t know for sure if she was mine?”
“She’s yours.”
“Yeah, well that’s obvious. She looks just like me.” Did I? I turned to Levi, stricken. Did I? He shrugged back. Meaning yes.
Another long silence, and my legs started to shake like the last forty-eight hours had finally caught up. I put my hands on my knees to steady them, dug my heels into the ground. Then, “Where the hell are they, Clare? They should’ve been here by now.”
“They’ll be here. They owe me. Just calm—”
I couldn’t hear them anymore. I went down hard behind the battered backside of a bucket seat, shoulder to the dirt and a mouthful of weeds. Until I saw Levi next to me, raising his gun at something unseen, I’d assumed I fainted. I would’ve preferred it actually. I waited for gunfire. For bodies to hit the ground. But the breeze rustled the air like any other summer day. Two men. They knew where they were going. They were expected, it seemed. One pounded on the door twice with his tattooed fist—a design that looked like a fancy letter N—while the other stood guard, their guns visible, but not drawn.
The man spoke into the closed door. “The Bear sent us to drive you to Mexico.”
My mother let them in. I saw her hand on the door, her ruby sparkling in the sunlight. Behind her, a shadow—so close, so dark—it could only belong to Cullen. “It’s about time,” she said.
december 27, 1996
Something felt off. Before Clare phoned in sick, not even bothering to fake a sniffle or a cough. Before she drove into the bowels of the Fruitvale neighborhood in Oakland where a weaselly, mustached man called Pepe forged two passports while she waited on his doorstep. Before she packed it all into Briggs’ ammo can and drove to Muir Woods. Before she counted 350 paces and dug a hole to the right of a tree that looked like a mouth waiting to swallow her. Before all of that, she awakened to the sound of her doorbell and a feeling. The slippery kind she couldn’t put a name to, the kind shrinks don’t stick on a feelings chart.
Cullen’s photo had slipped from the pillow, one edge bent as if she’d been holding it all night. Still grasping it in her hand, unable to part with it, she padded to the door.
Rodney had left the money on her mat like he promised, bundled inside an oversized envelope decorated for Christmas. But he hadn’t followed her instructions. Not that it surprised her. He’d always done what he wanted, to whom he wanted, and when. Leave the money outside my door at 6 a.m. on Friday. Come alone and don’t ring the bell. Drive away right after. Yet, he stood there in the parking lot, gaping at her in her T-shirt that barely covered her underwear.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she slammed the door shut and locked it. And that seed of a feeling grew. She’d felt it before, the morning after Rodney first touched her. Knowing the world had changed completely before she could remember how. Knowing her old life had been broken and could never be put right again. Knowing in her bones she’d set it all in motion.
That night, Clare floored it back from Muir Woods—her hands caked with dirt that would take effort to wash off and that feeling still sitting on her chest. She’d already pulled into the lot when she saw Briggs’ jeep, parked and running. Too late to turn around. A glance in the mirror told her she looked inexplicably ridiculous. Her face smudged with mud and sweat, stray needles in her hair, and eyes red-rimmed from her near all-nighter.
“Clare? What the hell happened to you?”
She squinted in the headlights of his jeep as he rolled up the window and climbed out. “Did you come from Quentin?” she asked, though she knew the answer already. He still was wearing his army-green uniform pants with a thin white T-shirt. “Do you want to come inside?” Clare heard herself talking too much, but she couldn’t stop. Maybe if she kept it up, she wouldn’t have to explain.
“Not until you tell me why you look like … that.”
“I fell. I went for a run in the woods—just needed a change of scenery, I guess—and I slipped and took a tumble.”
“Seriously?” A meek shrug and a woe-is-me smile. That’s all it took. “What are you doing running in the woods alone anyway? It’s dangerous, Clare.”
“You’ve been working too hard, Sergeant. It’s starting to get in your head. I think you need a little R&R.”
He chuckled, sidling up to her and kissing her disheveled face. “If by R&R, you mean this, then absolutely. And, I need to talk to you.” She’d never heard Briggs say that before, and it confirmed her unease.
Upstairs, she sat at the kitchen table, twisting the ruby on her finger, while he poured them each a glass of red from the last bottle left over from her Napa trip with Neal. “So, what’s up?” she asked, averting her eyes from her fingernails. Dirt that wouldn’t wash off in the sink. Dirt as thick and black as dried blood.
“Did you enjoy your little Christmas for one?” Was he stalling? “I still can’t believe you wouldn’t come home with me. My mom would love you, Ms. Fancy Pants Doctor … heck, my whole family would love you.”
Usually, this kind of talk would make her claustrophobic, send her darting in search of an excuse that would carry her through as long as she needed it to. “Next time,” she said. “I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” She hoped her smile, more for herself than for him, didn’t give her away. “Hey, remember how you asked me to check into the Dumas thing?”
Her heart lurched. “Did you find something?”
“I did.” He placed his hand over hers, comforting her for something that hadn’t happened yet. “But it might not be what you were expecting. I don’t want to upset—”
“Just tell me, please.”
“Bonner got some intel from a confidential informant.”
“Bonner? You told him about this?”
“Relax. I didn’t tell him anything. I heard it through the grapevine, but I checked it out myself, and i
t’s legit.”
“What is? What’s legit?”
“Cullen.”
She stared at her stomach, expecting to see a knife handle jutting out from her rib cage. The blade stuck deep inside, twisting. That’s what it felt like. “What about him?”
“The informant implicated him in Dumas’ death. Said he saw him strangle the guy with a bedsheet to make it look like a suicide.”
She wasn’t sure words would come out, but she tried anyway. “Uh … I … why … ”
“Who knows why, Clare? That guy is a psychopath through and through. I know you find him fascinating as a patient, but you can’t really be surprised. Anyway, they don’t have enough evidence to reopen the investigation, but I thought you should know. For closure.”
“Closure,” she repeated. Her voice sounded tinny and far away.
Briggs stood up and pulled her with him. She felt light as a feather, following behind him as he led her to the bathroom and turned on the shower. In the mirror, her face looked the same. Just dirty. But her eyes were hollow and sunken, and she couldn’t turn away. Even when Briggs pulled her grimy T-shirt over her head, unclasped her bra, tugged her sweats down. Even when he undressed himself, and the glass got steamy. Finally, he swiveled her head with his hand, and it moved slow and mechanical toward him—like a robot someone forgot to wind.
“Let’s wash this day off, shall we?”
december 28, 1996
Clare focused on slowing her walk by staring at the concrete track beneath her feet. The ground glistened with morning dew, little drops that caught the first sunlight and sparkled. It could’ve been beautiful if her brain had room to consider such things. She wanted to sprint to West Block, bust into Dumas’ old cell, and shake Snip awake, demanding answers. Though he’d been in the infirmary when it’d happened, he was the only person she could halfway trust, the only person she could think to ask. Aside from Cullen. It ached to say his name even in her head.
She would’ve never been able to explain going to work on a Saturday. Or why she couldn’t do brunch with his friends, like Briggs suggested. Or why she’d stopped him last night, pushed him off her, and feigned a headache. Instead, she left Briggs asleep in her bed, his mouth slack and drooling on her pillow. Stick to the plan, she told herself, loading a small suitcase of essentials into her trunk. She marveled at how light it felt, how little of this life she wanted to take with her.
The officer buzzed her into West Block, and Clare waved to him as casual as she could. “Dr. Keely here to check on Eddie Bailey. He said he felt pretty depressed this morning.”
“Snip doesn’t need checking on, does he?” The officer turned to his counterpart for back up, but the other man just shrugged.
“My supervisor called me at home and woke me up. So, if I could just do my job and get back to my Saturday, I’d really appreciate it.” Geez, Clare. You are a bitch. And a lying one at that.
With a raise of his eyebrows and an exasperated exhale, he allowed her in. She bolted down the cement corridor to cell 215L while the officer waited, open-mouthed, for his thank you. “Mr. Bailey? Snip?”
The sheets on the upper bunk rustled, and a shock of brown hair emerged from beneath them. “Huh? Who’s there?”
“Clare Keely. I met you a while back.”
“Dumas’ headshrinker?”
To her own surprise, Clare chuckled. “Yep, that’s me.” Snip hopped down, spry as a fox, and walked to the cell front. “Are you alone?” she asked as he rubbed his eyes awake.
He gestured to the bottom bunk. Nothing but a bare mattress and a meager pillow. “Is that a trick question? I’m not seeing things, Doc. Are you?”
Clare took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “Just checking. I need to talk to you about Dumas.”
“I already told them everything I know. I wasn’t even here that day. Wish I had been, I’ll tell ya that.”
“This is off the record, Mr. Bailey.”
“Ain’t no such thing in prison.”
“Please. You can trust me.” She wasn’t above begging. Not anymore. “What do you think happened to James?”
“Like I told the Lieutenant, I don’t know.” He watched her face for a moment, the hard lines in his forehead softening. “But he didn’t seem like somebody about to end it all. Just my opinion though. I ain’t no doctor.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
Snip laughed. “We all got enemies in here. But James didn’t have no more than anybody else. Are you in some kinda trouble about this? Bonner told me you might come asking questions. Said I wasn’t supposed to say nothing. They’re not trying to blame you, are they?”
Clare shrugged, far too desperate, far too gone, to waste her time on Bonner. “Sort of. But that’s not really why I’m here.”
“So why are you here then? Why don’t you just go on and spit it out?”
So she did. “Clive Cullen. Did James know him?”
“Everybody knows that guy. A real arrogant SOB, if you ask me. I never saw James talk to him, but then again, we weren’t attached at the hip, you know. Do you think he had something to do with it?” Snip asked, and she fought the urge to leave as quickly as she came.
“I hope not.” It was the most honest answer she could give.
Snip looked past her, down the empty concrete hallway, and lowered his voice. “Well, I for one wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “But I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors on the yard.” Clare let out a shaky breath that said she hadn’t. “Let’s just say ain’t nobody wanted you as a therapist, Doc. Cullen don’t like to share. But you probably know that better than anybody.”
She caught another breath and held it in until her chest hurt. “Know what?” she asked.
“His m.o.—when he has to share, somebody usually winds up dead.”
Clare bit the inside of her lip to keep her panic at bay. “Is there anything else you didn’t tell Bonner? Anything at all? Even if it might not seem that important.”
“There’s plenty I didn’t tell Bonner. That guy’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, I’d heard that shifty-eyed CO Briggs was down here in charge. This ain’t his post, so I figure that don’t smell right. He’d lick Bonner’s boots if somebody asked him to.” Clare nearly cackled at the thought. “And the real kicker, James told me himself he’d seen something. Before you ask, he didn’t say what. Only that he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. He seemed real worried about it.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“Best I can recall, it would’ve been that morning before I got sick. Probably about the time he got back from your office.” Snip gave her a sly grin. “Were you doing something you weren’t supposed to, Doc?” Clare froze, caught in his brown eyes. She’d done so many things she wasn’t supposed to, she couldn’t really remember which wrong things she’d done when. “I’m just messin’ with ya.”
Clare nodded and slogged away without bothering to say goodbye. White noise whooshed and whirred in her ears. Above it all, a refrain so steady and familiar—it’s all your fault, Clare, all your fault—she didn’t even turn around when Snip called her back.
****
Clare barreled back to her office like a runaway train. Her hands trembled as she paged through Cullen’s file, twice slicing her finger on the paper’s edge, leaving half of a bright red print as a mark of her carelessness. Her thoughts jumbled, bled together, made no sense.
Cullen and Dumas and
Briggs and Cullen and
Bonner and Ramirez and Torres and
Cullen and Cullen and Cullen and—
“He lied to me.” She said it out loud to silence the rest. But it didn’t feel right. She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to. Still, she knew her own game, the tricks she’d played on herself, the blind
ers she wore that made her capable of anything. Remarkable—that level of denial. That’s what Fitzpatrick would say, dressing her down with her own words. The most primitive defense mechanism? Really? I expected more from you, Dr. Keely.
She cradled the phone in the crook of her neck and dialed the number on Cullen’s In Case of Death Notify form. She’d done it before—once—in September, but hung up after one ring. This time she held the line for what seemed an eternity.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, but not what she’d expected. Timid, mousy. The sort of woman who scared easily.
“Is this Vanessa Cullen?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”
“This is Lizzie Conway at San Quentin State Prison. Do you have a few minutes?” Sorry, Lizzie.
The woman’s breath hitched, then started up again, shallow and ragged. “Is Clive okay? Is my boy okay?”
“Yes. Yes, he’s fine. No need to worry. I’ve been working with him on—”
“His appeal? Are you an attorney?” Clare made a noise of surprise, mistaken as agreement. “Oh, thank God. It’s about time somebody believed him. Us. You do believe him, right? You’re the fourth attorney we’ve tried.”
Clare pressed the soles of her feet into the ground as hard as she could, fighting the sudden sensation it had given way beneath her. “Believe he’s innocent? Uh … do you?”
“Of course.” It came out short and firm like the strike of a knife. “Clive could never hurt a fly, much less a woman. A woman he loved. Though I never did understand what he saw in her. That Emily, she had issues. Like my Clive always says, ‘It’s no wonder she got herself killed.’”
In the vacuous silence, Clare heard Cullen’s echo. Emily. You remind me of her. She spoke because she had to. “What was Clive like as a boy, Ms. Cullen?”
When Vanessa laughed, Clare pictured her. The same blue-gray eyes as Cullen’s, crinkling in the corners. “Spoiled.”
“Oh?” The word barely made it up and out of the back of her throat.
“Well, I had a good excuse. Making up for lost time. He lived with his dad until he was thirteen. But we don’t like to talk about that.”
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 30
