by Ellie Marney
It’s like something out of a dream: Up the verdant hill, following the path of a white-aproned woman carrying a silver tray with a coffee service, an old golden Labrador bitch comes with tongue lolling. In the adult dog’s wake, four puppies try to keep up.
The staff member arrives and sets the tray on the rattan table in front of the couch, dogs milling about her heels. “I told them to shoo, Miss Kristin, but they wouldn’t.”
“You must never apologize for the puppies,” Kristin declares. “I love them. Come here, Sheba. Oh, Emma, look at them! Here, you must cuddle a puppy.” She scoops up one of the pups and deposits it in Emma’s lap, then pets the old mother dog, attracting the whines of the others, all of them wanting attention at once.
Emma’s fingers are suddenly full of wriggling-soft puppy. The creamy fur is like old silk. She maneuvers the warm body to see the pup’s face. Its eyes are liquid chocolate, and so wet they seem to brim with tears.
Kristin smiles, sits on the ground, and piles puppies on herself as the aproned woman pours the coffee. The sun filters through the oak leaves. A strand of spiderweb drifts in a graceful ballet into shrubs nearby. If she were ever to go insane, Emma reflects, she would like this to be her resting place: a bungalow in a honeysuckle garden, with a gambol of puppies and thoughtful staff.
She sees Bell, his stoic mask softening as he squats to pet the mother dog, who pushes him over and licks his face. Later, in the cab of the Dodge as they drive back to Quantico against the end-of-day commuter traffic, Emma will notice how quiet he is, and that he has grass in his hair.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They write up the Gesak interview on Monday night.
Cooper doesn’t even have the consideration to collect their report in person but dispatches Betty, who accepts the paperwork and gives them paperwork in return: class assignments. Bell is gratified, Emma appalled at the idea of more wasted time. They’ve entered the second week of June. Cooper hasn’t yet discussed the idea of another visit to Simon Gutmunsson, and Emma sits, tight-lipped, through Tuesday sessions on Legal Search Procedures and Quantico Library Orientation, then a two-hour introductory lecture on Miranda Rights.
She knows that the legwork on the Pennsylvania case is ongoing, just out of her line of sight. Forces are mobilizing. Reports are being typed and submitted. There’s more data now than is contained in the slim, static file she and Bell have been allowed, and it frustrates her that they don’t have access to any of it. She beats some of her frustration out on the Yellow Brick Road on Wednesday morning, her footfalls thumping on the pine-needled path.
There’s only one avenue open to them, one line of inquiry they’ve been permitted to pursue. As much as it unnerves her, she’d rather plunge in than sit around waiting for the next bodies to surface.
She talks it out with Bell on the firing range. He’s not enthused, but he agrees to help her bring it up with Cooper. When they arrive at the office after lunch, the man himself is there, leaning against the desk.
Emma takes her chance. “I want to see Simon Gutmunsson again.”
“You’re okay to go back?” Cooper’s version of surprised is so low-key it’s barely discernible. He must be great at parties.
“We already said we’d play—so let’s play.” Emma looks at him more closely. “Wait. There was something in our report on Gutmunsson, wasn’t there? Something important.”
Cooper stands. “It was the comment about the hair. The most recent female victim, her hair was trimmed. We figured it out from photos and then we confirmed with the parents.”
Emma glances at Bell. His eyebrows are raised, and she remembers: If the killer’s next victims show up with their hair cut off, Cooper will have you back at St. Elizabeths faster than you can say “teenage sociopath.”
Bell was right. But this makes things easier, in a way. She doesn’t need to upsell. “Okay, great. Simon obviously has more information and I want to find out what it is. But if we’re going to do it, let’s do it. I want to go today.”
Cooper considers, one elbow cupped and his other hand knuckled under his chin. Even overworked and under pressure, he’s still meticulously dressed. Emma wonders for the first time if he’s married, if he has a wife at home who presses neat creases into his suits.
“Okay,” he says finally, “I’ve got a meeting at the Scientific Analysis lab in Washington, so I can drive you up. But if the rest of Gutmunsson’s information proves useless or misleading, we cut off communication. And don’t give him any personal details. You don’t want that stuff floating around in Simon Gutmunsson’s head.”
“Noted.”
“And I want you to wear a wire when you talk to him.”
“I disagree,” Bell says.
“Pardon?”
“She didn’t wear a wire the first time.”
Cooper straightens. “We weren’t sure if his information had value the first time.”
“Right.” Bell crosses his arms. “And now Gutmunsson will anticipate it. He knows how the FBI works. If he thinks she’s wired, he’ll just lie.”
Cooper frowns, undecided. “Miss Lewis?”
Emma is thinking of the things Simon Gutmunsson might say now that he knows her identity. The way she might react. She suspects Bell has thought of it, too. The only way she can express her gratitude for his kindness now is to avoid looking at him.
“A wire would be hard to conceal. I wore a T-shirt last time. If I come in wearing a jacket to do a follow-up, Gutmunsson will know. He’s aware that we’re curious about his Pennsylvania information—we can’t afford for him to think we’re invested. I can write down everything he says after I come out of the interview. I have a pretty good memory.”
She thinks she might have laid it on too thick, but Cooper gives his assent. As he ushers them out of the Cool Room, away from Behavioral Science, Emma controls the urge to high-five with Bell. He may not high-five back.
She speaks quietly as they walk fast behind Cooper, heading for the elevators. “Travis, what’s the problem?”
Bell’s lips are pursed. “Gutmunsson is the problem. I don’t think we should rely on anything he says. He might help us for fun, then turn around and give us false leads, and he would find that equally funny. He doesn’t actually care if the Pennsylvania killer is caught. For him, the longer this circus goes on, the better—he gets more attention that way.”
“Sure. But I think we can use that self-interest and arrogance against him.”
“He’s too smart. He’ll see you coming around the corner.” Bell’s eyebrows knit, which means he’s about to say something she won’t like. “And Gutmunsson isn’t only interested in Pennsylvania. You heard Kristin. He’s interested in you.”
She’s saved from replying—they’ve already reached the elevator. Standing all together, waiting, she has another thought. “Mr. Cooper, does the bureau know we’re getting information from Gutmunsson about the Pennsylvania case?”
Cooper watches the numbers above the door. “I’m heading up the unit. I know. If I know, the bureau knows.”
Emma looks at Bell. He’s watching her. His blank expression speaks volumes.
The elevator dings.
The door opens, and a tall, big-boned man in a dark suit steps out. He’s in his late fifties. Emma thinks, He’s carrying too much weight to be a field agent, and the way Cooper kowtows to him confirms it.
“Sir.”
“Special Agent Cooper.” A North Carolina accent, broad features, and a beady eye. He might’ve been military once—now he looks more corporate. “Good timing. You gonna make the budgetary committee meeting?”
“No, sir. Lab in Washington is ready with final reports on Pennsylvania. I’ve got to be up there.”
“Right, right.”
“But I’ll contact Howard Carter, get him to belly up to Justice and explain the numbers.”
“For sure. I guess the case is the priority.”
Cooper looks grave. “The case is always the priority, sir.�
�
“You got it.” Cooper’s superior turns his attention to Emma and Bell, standing like ornaments in the background. “These are your new recruits, I take it.”
He shoots his cuffs unnecessarily, and Emma realizes they’ll have to watch their step.
Cooper nods as he makes the introductions. “Miss Lewis, Mr. Bell, this is Section Chief Donald Raymond.”
Raymond shakes Bell’s hand in that bluff “good ole boy” way. “Great to meet you, son. How’s the work?”
Bell has been standing straight since the elevator door opened. “The interviews are going well, sir. It’s a privilege to be working with the bureau.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Your dad was a fine Marshal. And here you are, carrying on his legacy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Raymond grimaces. “Helluva thing, losing a man like that. I met your dad once, on the job. You look a lot like him. But good for you, son, keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Raymond turns Emma’s way and she wonders if he’s even aware of the casual hurt he’s just inflicted on Bell. Then she’s concentrating on her own responses as Raymond squeezes her fingers.
“Miss Lewis, good to meet you. That’s a tough job you’re doing—how’re you holding up?”
“Thank you, I’m doing fine.” Emma extricates her hand.
“Tricky business, yes indeed. Not the kind of thing we’d normally ask of a young lady like yourself, but Agent Cooper says everything’s going well.”
“It’s good to get feedback from Agent Cooper.” She tries not to sound too dry. Maybe Raymond thinks he’s being courteous.
Cooper’s eyes dart. “If you’ll excuse us, sir.”
“Absolutely, sure,” Raymond says. “Well, a pleasure to meet you both. Let me know how it all pans out.”
He passes by, they enter the elevator, and Cooper punches the button. His Plymouth is in the shop, and they have to visit the motor pool to requisition a vehicle. When they get there, Cooper goes to hunt up something suitable as Emma and Bell stand near the wall, out of the way.
“Tricky business,” Emma says conversationally.
Bell, eyes forward. “My mom is from Oaxaca. My dad had blue eyes and blond hair. I don’t look anything like him.”
Cooper comes back folding the paperwork. “The gray Diplomat. Let’s move.”
Starting this late in the day, there’s no way they can beat the traffic. Emma contemplates the scene with Raymond for the first part of the drive, lets it go to focus on more pressing concerns.
“Does Dr. Scott know we’re coming?”
“I phoned her, yes.” Cooper is concentrating on the Diplomat’s handling. “Watch yourself with Scott. She’s highly professional but maybe a little too invested in ‘reforming’ Gutmunsson.”
“How does she think someone like Gutmunsson can be reformed?” Bell asks.
“In her philosophy, anyone can be reformed.” Cooper frowns. “It’s a very humanitarian impulse, but misguided in this case, I think.”
Or maybe, Emma thinks, Simon Gutmunsson has simply lulled Dr. Scott into believing he could be reformed. She wouldn’t put it past him.
Cooper eases the car past the Franconia exit. “I’m not going to escort you inside this time. I’ll drop you off at the entrance and come back in an hour.”
Emma thinks of something else. “Can I ask you about Gutmunsson’s arrest? You said you were the second unit agent during his investigation.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you suspect anything, when he first became a person of interest in the case?”
Cooper shifts uncomfortably. “A few alarm bells rang, yes. It was the way he presented, more than anything. His story was very smooth. Too smooth.”
“You weren’t there at his arrest?”
“No. I was examining one of the crime scenes when Agent Gilet decided to bring him in for routine questioning. Barton Bell was Joe’s backup.” Cooper catches Bell’s eye in the rearview, a single regretful glance. “Nobody realized how much danger they were in. The profile was way off—we thought we were looking for a much older suspect.”
“Is Agent Gilet still with the bureau? If we could talk with him—”
“Joe Gilet killed himself last fall.” Cooper’s jaw is like a clenched fist, and he doesn’t give Emma time to catch her breath. “Look, don’t let Simon Gutmunsson intimidate you. People call him a monster. I prefer not to think of him that way—it suggests there’s something legendary about him, and I don’t buy into that.”
“How do you think of him?”
Cooper scans the sky on the other side of National Harbor, the high clouds scudding across with their pristine, sudsy tops and underbellies the color of mourning doves. “I consider him to be a kind of… human black hole. Sucking everything into himself, every scrap of light. Beyond that, now that he’s incarcerated, I try to think of him as little as possible.”
Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Scott is greeting them at the door to the asylum.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The air in the chapel glitters with suspended particles of dust. Someone has swept the floor. Emma wonders if this is Pradeep’s job, or if another staff member or inmate completes such chores. On her way through the foyer, she passed a middle-aged man in a white uniform, but he was carrying a first aid kit, not a broom.
The mundane necessity of housework seems at odds with the time-capsule feel of the space. On her first visit she was too afraid to notice, but entering now it occurs to her that Simon Gutmunsson’s jail seems to have its own chronology, like a wight’s barrow or a knight’s tomb from a fairy tale.
She has to banish fanciful thoughts and refocus. Kristin’s advice and the experiences with McMurtry and Gesak have given her a better understanding of how to proceed.
Emma breathes deep. She can box up her anxiety about meeting Simon again, put it aside. Bell is in the lobby to support her in the aftermath. They need this. She can do this.
“No papers today?” Pradeep’s baritone and dark eyes are calming. He has a folded newspaper and the sign-in ledger on his desk, which is otherwise bare. The pincer tool hangs from a coat hook on the wall. There is nothing else that could be used as a weapon except the chair. Emma remembers Scott’s comment about Simon’s escape attempts; Pradeep must have instructions on what to do if Simon ever gets loose. Emma hopes neither she nor Pradeep is ever in a position to enact them.
“No papers,” she says. “Thank you.”
“I am right here, if you require.”
Emma nods, appreciative. She understands why Simon and Pradeep maintain a genteel truce. In a situation where true personal connection—say, between an inmate and his jailer—is impossible, the only recourse is the implied respect of professionalism. Pradeep is very good at maintaining an appropriate tone. It’s a social skill Emma has never quite mastered.
She’s still trying to figure out what tone to take when she finds herself standing in front of Simon’s cage.
He is sitting at his desk, consulting one of his books and writing on a piece of butcher paper, which has been neatly torn off the roll. Now he turns sideways in his bolted-down chair to face her.
“Emma.” His eyes give off cold sparks. His eyebrows are dark slashes against the paleness of his skin, his white hair. His mouth is slightly open; she thinks of flies buzzing out, has to push the image aside.
“Hello, Simon.”
His beauty is like a lightning bolt: shocking and brilliant and terrifyingly wild. The radiance from the stained-glass windows gives him an almost ethereal glow. Emma reminds herself he is not a magical being, he is a boy of flesh and blood. His cheekbones are sharp and high, his skin smooth—how does he shave?
He smiles. “So we’re on a first-name basis at last. What a relief. Being called Mr. Gutmunsson makes me feel like an octogenarian.”
Emma plunges straight in. “If we’re being informal—your questionnaire answers pissed me off.”
He throws his hands up, turns back to his books. “And now we’ve lost civility altogether.”
“After our last interview, I figure we can skip the pleasantries.”
He adds another note to his paper. “A personal acquaintance is no excuse for abandoning courtesy. How have you been, Simon? Thank you, Emma, I’ve been very well. It’s the small details that lubricate our daily interactions.”
“But courtesy can be a type of mask as well. Don’t you get sick of people being polite to you?”
“If you’d like to witness people in their more natural state, come live in an asylum for a while. Tell me afterward whether you think good manners are a social unguent.”
Emma checks herself, realizes she’s being aggressive because she’s afraid. He is a human boy, she reminds herself. A human boy, whose sister loves him. An isolated boy, who gets bored, and probably lonely. A smart boy, who likes using big words because… because he’s showing off? Is Simon trying to impress her?
And can she use that?
She straightens. “I’m sorry. It’s nice to see you, Simon. How have you been?”
He touches his tongue to the tip of his finger and turns a page. “Thank you, Emma, I’ve been very well.”
“As a courtesy, I’ll say I think you’ve had your nose stuck in books all day. That’s great for your vocabulary, but you’ve lost sight of the big picture.”
“What big picture is that?”
“Pennsylvania.” She wets her lips. “Crozet. Luray. I’ve seen the file now. I can give you answers to your questions.”
“Did Cooper give you the file?” Gutmunsson glances over to check her expression, rolls his eyes. “My god, that man can’t help himself, can he? He’s almost as single-minded as I am.”
“He wants to catch this killer. Don’t you want to know about Pennsylvania? Ask me again.”
He sets his pen aside and turns, crosses his legs. Emma is struck over by his almost insectoid manner, his calm, precise movements. “Actually… there’s more I’d like to know about you.”
She’s readied herself for this. “That’s a shame. I’m not really prepared to answer personal questions.”
