A Faint Cold Fear

  “She cleaned the gun before she shot herself?” Jeffrey asked, thinking that was the last thing he would do.

  Frank shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to make sure it was working right.”

  “You think?” Jeffrey asked, standing in front of the couch. Schaffer was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a cropped T-shirt. Her feet were bare, her toe caught in the trigger mechanism. The sun tattoo around her belly button was visible beneath a backspray of blood. Her hands were resting on the muzzle of the rifle, probably to keep it pointed toward her head.

  Using a pen from his pocket, Jeffrey pushed the right hand away. The palm was clean of blood where it had rested against the rifle, which meant that Schaffer had had her hand on the gun at the time she’d shot herself. Or been shot. An examination of the other hand revealed the same.

  Stuck between the cushions on the couch was a spent shot shell that had been ejected from the chamber when the trigger was pulled. Jeffrey pushed it with his pen, wondering why it didn’t look right. He checked the fine print on the muzzle to make sure, then said to Frank, “She’s got a twelve-gauge rifle and she used a twenty-gauge shell.”

  Frank stared at him for a moment. “Why’d she use a twenty?”

  Jeffrey stood up, shaking his head. The circumference of the rifle’s muzzle was larger than the circumference of the bullet. Probably one of the most dangerous things you can do with a rifle is load the wrong ammunition. Manufacturers had standardized the jacket colors of shells to prevent just this from happening.

  “How long was she on the skeet team?” Jeffrey asked.

  Frank took out his notebook and turned to the right page. “Just this year. Her roommate said she wanted to get into decathlons.”

  “She color-blind?” Jeffrey asked. The bright yellow shell was hard to mistake for the green twenty-gauge.

  “I can check,” Frank said, making a note.

  Jeffrey examined the tip of the muzzle, holding his breath as he tried to get a closer look. “She had a skeet choke on it,” he noticed. The choke would constrict the barrel, making it much more likely that the smaller shell would lodge.

  Jeffrey stood. “This isn’t adding up.”

  Frank said, “Look at the wall.”

  Jeffrey did as he was told, walking around a pool of blood by the head of the couch to examine the wall behind the body. The shot blast had displaced most of the skull, fragmenting pieces of the head against the wall at a high velocity.

  Jeffrey strained his eyes, trying to make sense of the blood and tissue that riddled the white wall. The lead shot pellets had left several large holes, some of them going through to the next room.

  “Something next door?” Jeffrey asked, saying a small prayer of thanks that no one had been in the other room when the trigger was pulled.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Frank said. “Do you see what’s in the wall?”

  “Hold on,” Jeffrey told him. He stared as hard as he could until he realized that something was staring back.

  Ellen Schaffer’s eyeball was embedded in the Sheetrock.

  “Christ,” Jeffrey said, turning away. He went back to the window, wanting to open it up and let out the smell. Being in this room was like being trapped in a shithouse on the last day of the state fair.

  Jeffrey looked back at the girl, trying to get some distance. He should have talked to her earlier. Maybe if he’d been here first thing, Ellen Schaffer would still be alive. He wondered what else he had missed. The caliber discrepancy on the rifle was suspicious, but anybody could make a mistake, especially if the person thought he—or she—wasn’t going to have to hang around to clean up the mess. Then again, the whole thing could have been staged. Did someone else have a bull’s-eye painted on their head?

  Jeffrey asked, “When did they find her?”

  “About thirty minutes ago,” Frank told him, taking out his handkerchief and patting his forehead. “They didn’t touch anything. Just closed the door and called us.”

  “Christ,” Jeffrey repeated, taking out his own handkerchief. He glanced back at the desk.

  “There’s Matt,” Frank said, and Jeffrey saw Matt walk into the backyard, hands in his pockets as he stared at the ground, looking for anything that seemed out of place. He stopped at one particular spot and knelt down for a better look.

  “What?” Jeffrey called, just as Frank’s cell phone started to ring.

  Matt raised his voice to be heard. “It looks like an arrow.”

  “A what?” Jeffrey yelled, thinking he did not have time for this.

  “An arrow,” Matt said. “Like somebody drew it into the ground.”

  “Chief,” Frank said, holding the phone to his chest.

  Jeffrey called to Matt, “Are you sure?”

  “Come see for yourself,” Matt answered. “It sure looks like it.”

  Frank repeated, “Chief.”

  “What, Frank?” Jeffrey snapped.

  “One of the fingerprints from Rosen’s apartment came back with a positive match on the computer.”

  “Yeah?” Jeffrey demanded.

  Frank shook his head. He looked down at the floor, then seemed to think better of it. “You don’t want to know.”

  6

  Lena lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to breathe and relax the way Eileen, the yoga instructor, had told them to. Lena could hold every yoga pose longer than anyone else in class, but when it came to the cool-down period, she was a complete failure. The concept of “letting go” was against Lena’s personal religion of being in control of herself at every point in her life, especially where her body was concerned.

  Their first therapy session, Jill Rosen had recommended Lena take up yoga to help her relax and sleep better. Rosen had given Lena a lot of coping advice in their short time together, but this was the only bit that took. Part of Lena’s problem after the attack was that she’d felt like her body was not her own. Because she was athletic from a young age, her muscles were not used to this idle life of moping around and feeling sorry for herself. Something about stretching and pushing her body, watching her biceps and calves return to their normal hardness, had given Lena hope, like maybe she could get back to her old self. Then the cool-down period came, and Lena felt the same way she had felt the first time she took Algebra in school. And the second time she had taken it in summer school.

  She closed her eyes, concentrating on the small of her back, trying to release the tension, but the effort made her shoulders draw up to her ears. Her body was as tight as a rubber band, and Lena did not understand why Eileen insisted this was the most important part of the class. All the enjoyment Lena got from stretching evaporated as soon as the music turned low and they were told to get on their backs and breathe. Instead of picturing a winding stream or the rolling waves of an ocean, all Lena pictured was a clock ticking away, and the millions of things she had to do as soon as she left the gym, even though today was her day off.

  “Breathe,” Eileen reminded them in her irritatingly content monotone. She was a young woman of about twenty-five with the kind of sunny disposition that made Lena want to punch her.

  “Soften your back,” Eileen suggested, her voice a low whisper designed to soothe. Lena’s eyes popped open as Eileen pressed her palm to Lena’s stomach. The contact only made Lena tense more, but the instructor did not seem to notice. She told Lena, “That’s better,” a smile spreading across her narrow face.

  Lena waited for the woman to walk away before closing her eyes again. She opened her mouth, letting out the air in a steady stream, and was just starting to feel like it might be working when Eileen clapped her hands together.

  “That’s good,” Eileen said, and Lena stood up so quickly she got a head rush. The rest of the students were smiling at one another or hugging the perky instructor, but Lena grabbed her towel and headed for the locker room.

  Lena spun the combination on her lock, glad she had the room to herself. She glanced at herself in the mirror, then did a doubl
e take. Since the attack Lena had stopped looking in the mirror, but for some reason today she felt drawn to her reflection. Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and her cheekbones were more pronounced than usual. She was getting too thin, because most days the mere thought of food was enough to make her feel sick.

  She took the clip out of her hair, letting the long brown strands fall around her face and neck. Lately she felt more comfortable with her hair down, like a curtain. Knowing that no one would be able to get a good look at her made Lena feel safe.

  Someone came in, and Lena walked back to her locker, feeling stupid for being caught in front of the mirror. A skinny guy stood beside her, taking his backpack out of the locker next to hers. He was standing so close that she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Lena turned around and snatched up her shoes, thinking she could put them on outside.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Lena waited. He was blocking the door.

  “That hugging stuff,” he said, shaking his head like this was something they joked about all the time.

  Lena looked him over, knowing she’d never talked to this kid before in her life. He was short for a guy, just a little taller than she was. His body was wiry and small-framed, but she could see his well-defined arms and shoulders beneath the black long-sleeved T-shirt he wore. His hair was cropped close to his head in a military style, and he was wearing lime green socks that were so bright they were almost painful to look at.

  He held out his hand. “Ethan Green. I joined the class a couple of weeks ago.”

  Lena sat down on the bench to put on her shoes.

  Ethan sat at the other end. “You’re Lena, right?”

  “Read it in the papers?” she asked, working at a knot in her tennis shoe, thinking that fucking article they ran on Sibyl had made her life even more difficult than it had to be.

  “Noo-o,” he said, drawing out the word. “I mean, yeah, I know about you, but I heard Eileen call you Lena, so I put two and two together.” He flashed a nervous smile. “And I recognized the picture.”

  “Smart kid,” she said, giving up on the knot. She stood, forcing her foot into the shoe.

  He stood, too, holding his backpack close. There were only three or four guys who took yoga, and they invariably ended up in the locker room after class, spewing some line about how they did yoga to get in touch with their feelings and explore their inner selves. It was a great ploy, and Lena guessed that the male yoga students got laid more often than any other guys on campus.

  She said, “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, a half smile at his lips. He was an attractive kid, probably used to having girls fall all over him.

  “What?” She looked at him, waiting. A small bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, past a two-pronged scar just below his ear. He must have gotten the wound dirty before it closed, because there was a dark tint to the scar that made it stand out against his jawline.

  He smiled nervously, asking, “Would you like to go get some coffee?”

  “No,” she told him, hoping that would end it.

  The door opened, and a stream of girls flowed in, banging lockers open and shut.

  He said, “You don’t like coffee?”

  “I don’t like kids,” she said, grabbing her bag and leaving before he could say anything more.

  Lena felt rattled as she left the gym, and pissed off that she’d let that kid catch her off guard. Even after climbing the uphill battle called relaxation, Lena always felt calmer when she left a yoga class than she did when it started. Now that was gone. She felt tense again, jumpy. Maybe she would drop off her bag at her room, change, and go for a long run until her body was so tired that she could sleep away the rest of the day.

  “Lena?”

  Lena turned, expecting to see the kid again. It was Jeffrey.

  “What?” she asked, instantly feeling her defenses go up. Something about the way he stood close to her, his stance wide apart, his shoulders squared, told her this was not a social visit.

  “I need you to come down to the station with me.”

  She laughed, but even as she did, Lena knew he wasn’t joking.

  “It’ll just be a minute.” Jeffrey tucked his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got some questions to ask you about yesterday.”

  “Tessa Linton?” Lena said. “Did she die?”

  “No.” He looked over his shoulder, and Lena could see Ethan about fifty yards behind him. Jeffrey stepped closer, lowering his voice, saying, “We found your fingerprints in Andy Rosen’s apartment.”

  She could not hide her surprise. “In his apartment?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”

  “Because I didn’t,” Lena snapped. She started to walk away, but Jeffrey put his hand on her arm. His grip wasn’t tight, but she knew it could be.

  He said, “You know we can run your underwear for DNA.”

  Lena could not remember the last time she had felt so shocked. “What underwear?” she asked, too surprised by what he was saying to react to the physical contact.

  “The underwear you left in Andy’s room.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He loosened his grip on her arm, but it had the opposite effect for Lena. He told her, “Let’s go.”

  Lena said what anybody with half a brain would say to a cop who was looking at her the way Jeffrey was now. “I don’t think so.”

  “Just a few minutes.” His voice was friendly, but Lena had worked with Jeffrey long enough to know what his real intentions were.

  She asked, “Am I under arrest?”

  He seemed insulted. “Of course not.”

  She tried to keep her voice calm. “Then let me go.”

  “I just want to talk to you.”

  “Make an appointment with my social secretary.” Lena tried to pull her arm out of his grasp just as Jeffrey’s hand tightened again. Panic welled up inside her. “Stop it,” she hissed, trying to jerk her arm away from him.

  “Lena—” he said, as if she were overreacting.

  “Let me go!” she screamed, yanking away so hard that she fell back onto the sidewalk. Her tailbone connected with the cement like a sledgehammer, pain shooting up her spine.

  Suddenly Jeffrey lurched forward. Lena thought he might fall on her, but he caught himself at the last minute, taking two big steps around her.

  “What the . . . ?” Her mouth opened in surprise. Ethan had pushed Jeffrey from behind.

  Jeffrey recovered quickly, and he was in Ethan’s face before Lena could tell what was going on. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Ethan’s voice was a low growl. The goofy boy Lena had talked to back in the locker room had been replaced by a nasty pit bull of a man. “Fuck off.”

  Jeffrey held up his badge a few inches from Ethan’s nose. “What did you say, boy?”

  Ethan stared at Jeffrey, not the shield. The muscles in his neck stood in stark relief, and a vein near his eye pulsed strongly enough to give him a visible tic. “I said fuck off, you goddamn pig.”

  Jeffrey pulled out his handcuffs. “What’s your name?”

  “Witness,” Ethan said, his tone hard and even. He obviously knew enough about the law to realize he had leverage. “Eyewitness.”

  Jeffrey laughed. “To what?”

  “To you knocking this woman down.” Ethan pulled Lena up by the arm, his back to Jeffrey. He slapped dirt off her pants, ignoring Jeffrey, telling her, “Let’s go.”

  Lena was so shocked by the authority in his tone that she started to follow.

  “Lena,” Jeffrey said, as if he were the only one being reasonable. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  Ethan turned, his fists clenched, ready for a fight. Lena thought he was not only stupid but insane. Jeffrey had at least fifty pounds on the younger man, and he knew how to use them. Not to mention that Jeffrey had a gun.

  Lena said, “Come on,” jerking Ethan away
by the arm like she was tugging his leash. When she dared look back over her shoulder, Jeffrey stood where they had left him, the look on his face telling her this was far from over.

  Ethan put two ceramic mugs down on the table, coffee for Lena, tea for him.

  “Sugar?” he asked, taking a couple of packets out of his pants pocket. He was back to being a goofy nice kid again. The transformation was so complete that Lena was not sure whom she had seen earlier. Today was so fucked up, she did not know if she could trust her memory on anything.

  “No,” she said, wishing he were offering her whiskey instead. No matter what Jill Rosen said, Lena had rules, and one of them was that she never drank before eight at night.

  Ethan sat down across from Lena before she could think to tell him to go away. She would go home in a minute, after she got over the shock of what had happened with Jeffrey. Lena’s heart was still pounding in her chest, and her hands shook around the mug. She’d never met Andy Rosen in her life. Why would her fingerprints be in his apartment? Never mind the fingerprints—why would Jeffrey think he had Lena’s underwear?

  “Cops,” Ethan said, the same way someone might say “pedophiles.” He sipped his tea, shaking his head.

  “You shouldn’t have interfered,” she told him. “And you shouldn’t have pissed off Jeffrey like that. He’ll remember you the next time he sees you.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I’m not worried.”

  “You should be,” she said, thinking he sounded just like every other disaffected suburban punk whose parents had been too busy arranging golf dates to teach their kids to respect authority. If they had been in an interview room at the police station, she would have slapped that smug look right off his face.

  She told him, “You should’ve listened to Jeffrey.”

  Anger flashed in his eyes, but he kept it under control. “Like you did?”

  “You know what I mean,” Lena told him, taking another sip of coffee. The liquid was hot enough to scorch her tongue, but she drank it anyway.

  “I wasn’t gonna stand around and watch him push you like that.”