Depraved Heart

  I GIVE THEM A HUG, and Janet is cool and composed. It’s her nature, her personality to be that way, and my attention lingers on her youthful attractive face.

  She’s not wearing makeup. Her short blond hair is messy as if she’s been running her fingers through it, and her nails are dirty. She’s wearing scrubs and I happen to know she sleeps in scrubs. But she doesn’t lounge in them. I’ve never seen her wear them around the house except right before bed or when she first gets up. It’s lunchtime and she’s unkempt and in scrubs, and it means something I need to figure out.

  If the FBI got here midmorning then what were Lucy and Janet doing before that? I’m quite certain they weren’t relaxing. When I hugged Janet just now and kissed her cheek, I tasted salt. I picked up the loamy pungent odors of soil mingled with the vague musky scent of sweat. Lucy was sweaty too. Perhaps they were doing some type of yard work earlier today.

  They don’t do yard work. They have a lawn service and a landscaper.

  I look around at built-in bookshelves, the exposed beams, the gray slate floor, the kitchenette with its gas stovetop and stainless steel sinks and appliances, and the backsplash of Venetian glass tiles the color of smoke. The boathouse is bright and simple, a small living area and a bath. It’s clean but has the empty patina of places rarely used. Maybe only when Lucy needs to scramble conversations. Or when she’s feeling hunted. And possibly she feels that way more than I’ve realized.

  “We’re safe in here.” Lucy watches me taking in everything around us. “It’s the only place on the property that’s completely safe right now. They can’t hear us. I promise. They can’t see us. As long as we stay inside.”

  “And they’re permitting this?” Donoghue asks dubiously and Lucy laughs.

  “They are but they don’t have a clue what they’re permitting. The boathouse is on a secure wireless network that suffice it to say is hidden.” She is suddenly smug and mirthful and just as quickly she ducks back behind her somberness.

  But I saw it. She has the FBI outsmarted or at least she believes she does. Nothing would amuse her more.

  “There are other features that make this foolproof. I’m not going to go into it.” She looks at Donoghue, then back at me. “You don’t need to know anything more than that we’re safe in here right this minute.”

  “Are you sure?” I sip my coffee and realize how much I need it. “Absolutely sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m going to talk freely.”

  CHAPTER 21

  GO AHEAD,” LUCY SAYS.

  “You think they’re after the dive mask I was wearing.” I don’t ask. I tell. “You think they’re on your property because of the video captured by the mini-recorder mounted on my mask—a mask I’ve been led to believe was never recovered.”

  “I don’t really know why they’re here. It could be about that,” Lucy says. “It could also be about more than one thing,” she adds, as if that’s what she really thinks.

  “I’ve not heard anything about a missing mask or a mini-recorder.” Donoghue has moved to a mission-style chair across from the couch, and she has a yellow legal pad and pen out.

  “There’s been no mention of them in the news,” I reply.

  “Well there’s plenty else about what happened in Florida including the two police divers murdered and you being almost murdered.” Donoghue directs this at me.

  “But let me guess,” Lucy says. “You don’t recall seeing the name Carrie Grethen anywhere.”

  “No I haven’t.”

  “And you won’t.” It’s Janet who says this. “The FBI will deny her existence. They’re denying it and will continue to do so.”

  “How can you be sure of this?” Donoghue asks her.

  “Because I know them.”

  “Clearly there’s a lot you need to brief me about, Kay.” Donoghue writes down the name Carrie Grethen in capital letters and circles it.

  “I realize that.”

  “They didn’t want to alert anybody that the mask is missing,” Lucy says. “Or is believed to be missing. It’s stupid. It’s not even logical.”

  “They being the FBI,” Donoghue assumes.

  “Yes,” Lucy says. “They’ve been managing the press releases about what happened in Fort Lauderdale.”

  “How could you know about it?” I ask. “Why would you know anything about how they’re handling the media?”

  “My search engines. I see everything that goes out.”

  She’s hacking.

  “There’s been no mention of the missing mask, which is dumb as hell since the person they’re trying to keep that detail from is the person who shot you,” she’s saying to me. “That person is Carrie and she knows damn well the mask you had on is missing because she’s the reason it’s missing.”

  “And on the video you can see this. You can see her take my mask.” I hope it’s true but don’t understand how it can be. “When I realized my mask was missing it made sense that Carrie might have ripped it off my face as a parting gesture. She would have recognized the camera embedded above the nosepiece. I can imagine her wanting the recording.”

  “She didn’t rip off your mask,” Lucy says. “But she definitely would want the recording.”

  “Then how did my mask come off? I understand I was spitting out the regulator. Benton says I was but he never mentioned I took my mask off too. Certainly he wouldn’t have done it.” I’m feeling more uncertain as I say all this. “And he wouldn’t have allowed her to get close enough to me to rip off my mask.” I’m becoming less sure of everything with each minute that passes. “I can’t imagine it happening like that.”

  “She didn’t get any closer, Aunt Kay. She shot you and then was out of sight.”

  “Out of sight? She wasn’t caught on camera?” I begin to get a cold feeling, a terrible one that clenches my gut.

  “Your mask got knocked off when you were struggling, when you were being pulled around by the rope attached to the spear and the surface buoy,” Lucy says, and I try to stay positive as I feel the boom about to drop.

  “Good. Fine. So we have documentation.” I’m deluding myself now but can’t seem to stop. “So we’re beginning to put the pieces together to show exactly what happened and who’s responsible.” My spirits lift even as I fail to comprehend how any of this makes sense.

  “I wish it were that simple.” Lucy begins her windup for the bad news that will follow. “Carrie doesn’t need to find out from the media that this critical piece of evidence is lost, missing, stolen, whatever.” She says it sarcastically, and my mood sinks lower, back to the dark space where it has been for weeks.

  “How the hell does it matter what’s in the news?” Marino retorts.

  “The FBI thinks it does,” Janet says quietly, seriously. “Not for the right reason, and that’s the problem. It’s always the problem.”

  “You’re presenting information as if it’s an undisputed fact,” Donoghue says to Lucy. “You’re basically stating irrefutably that Carrie has something to do with Kay’s missing dive mask. And what I keep asking myself is why do you know anything about it?”

  “I think what she’s trying to say is Carrie may not have ripped my mask off but she recovered it and now Lucy has the recording.” I look squarely at my niece to see if she’s going to deny this, and instantly I know she won’t.

  Dear God. What have you done?

  “I’ll explain.” Lucy stares out a window at the darkening sky.

  “Holy shit. Please tell me you’re kidding.” Marino’s eyes seem to bug out of his head.

  “I don’t understand how you got it from her,” I say to Lucy as my inner alarm hammers.

  “Dammit!” Marino says loudly. “Sorry,” he apologizes to Desi.

  “I didn’t say I got the mask from her,” Lucy replies. “Or anything directly from her.”

  “Don’t copy the way I talk, dude. Got it?” Marino puts his arm around Desi, pulls him close and vigorously knuckles his scalp.
br />   “Ouch!” Desi yells and giggles.

  “You know what that’s called? It’s called a noogie.”

  “Which is what school yard bullies do,” Janet says.

  “Mom makes me pay when I use swear words. A quarter for damn, and fifty cents for shit and a dollar if I say the f-word. You’re up to at least a dollar and twenty-five cents so far,” Desi lets Marino know, and he continues to refer to his mother in the present tense.

  “Did you have contact with Carrie? Did you see her?” I ask Lucy as calmly as I can muster.

  “It’s not what you might assume,” Janet says, and I can’t stop thinking of Lucy’s recent trip to Bermuda.

  I know she went but I didn’t know that she was going. She never mentioned it. Then days ago I found out she’d been there, and Janet and Desi didn’t go with her. Lucy doesn’t seem inclined to explain herself beyond what she’s already told me. She was on a dive trip. It wasn’t a vacation. She was meeting a friend of Janet’s. I have a feeling this person wasn’t merely a social acquaintance.

  “What are we supposed to assume?” Donoghue asks Lucy.

  “Nothing. Don’t assume anything.”

  “I need you to tell me everything.”

  “I never tell everything. Not to anyone.”

  “You’re going to have to with me if I’m going to represent you.”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal certain details, and it’s up to you how you deal with that.” Lucy is getting combative with her.

  “I’m not sure I can be of much use to you then.”

  “I’m not the one who called you,” Lucy says to her as she looks at me.

  “Don’t go,” I say to Donoghue as she gathers her belongings and gets up from her chair.

  “YOU NEED TO STAY,” I say to her. “You’re representing me too.”

  “I worried this might not work.” Donoghue picks up her pocketbook.

  “Lucy, please.” I give my niece a warning look, and she shrugs.

  “You should stay.” The way Lucy says it isn’t very convincing but it’s enough.

  “Okay then.” Donoghue sits down, and Desi is looking back and forth at whoever is talking.

  He’s a wise old soul, small for his age with a mop of pale brown hair and huge blue eyes. He shows no distress or angst but he shouldn’t be sitting here listening to this, and Marino can tell what I’m thinking.

  “I’ll take him outside for a walk,” he offers, clawing at mosquito bites that are angry wheals on his legs.

  “That sounds fun doesn’t it, Desi?” Lucy moves chairs from a small table off the kitchenette, arranges them near the couch.

  I’ve been standing all this time because I’ve gotten stubborn about being the first one to sit. People assume I need to because of my leg so I stand longer than I should even if I’m miserable.

  “How about a walk with Marino?” Lucy encourages Desi.

  “No. I don’t want to.” He shakes his head, and Janet puts her arm around him, hugs him close.

  “Yeah you do.” Marino picks up a tube of After Bite from the kitchen counter.

  “Tell me about the mini-recorder.” Donoghue directs this at me. “Give me any details you can.”

  But it’s Lucy who answers her. She explains that U.S. Congressman Bob Rosado was shot to death June 14 two months ago while diving off his yacht in South Florida. His scuba tank and part of his skull weren’t found, and since it’s a federal case and I have federal jurisdiction through my military affiliation, I decided to meet Benton’s tactical team in Fort Lauderdale. I showed up the next day, June 15, to help with their search and recovery efforts.

  “Is it routine for you to attach a mini-recorder to your dive mask whenever you’re doing an underwater recovery?” Donoghue asks me.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way because the camera is permanently mounted.” I smell ammonia and tea tree oil as Marino slathers gel over his mosquito bites.

  “But you turn the camera on and off. You do that manually and deliberately.” She slowly turns her coffee mug on the armrest of her chair as if to imply we’re talking in circles.

  “Yes,” I answer. “If for no other reason than to prevent questions about the procedures I used, about the veracity of my testimony. I like jurors to see where I found evidence. It’s helpful if they can witness for themselves that it was properly handled and preserved, and in dive search and recoveries it’s especially important because there’s no talking, no narrative, no explanation. You can’t hear much underwater except bubbles.”

  “So when you saw who you believe was Carrie Grethen, the camera on your mask was recording the entire time,” Donoghue says to me. “And that’s because you had turned it on.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then Carrie should be on film.”

  I start to answer that of course she will be but the look in Lucy’s eyes stops me. Something is wrong.

  “Wherever my face was directed, the camera was recording it,” I explain to Donoghue as uncertainty stirs inside me. “And there are no assumptions involved. It’s not what I believe. It’s about what’s true. I know who I saw.”

  “I have no doubt you believe you do.”

  “It’s not merely what I believe.”

  “But it is exactly that,” Donoghue says. “It’s what you believe, Kay, which isn’t necessarily what’s true. It happened fast. Out of nowhere. The blink of an eye. You had Carrie Grethen on the brain and then someone confronted you in not exactly optimal conditions. You’d just had the shock of discovering the two divers had been murdered by someone …”

  “By her.”

  “I know that’s what you believe. I’m sure you’re sincere. The visibility had to be pretty bad. Do you wear contact lens when you dive? Is your mask prescription?”

  “I know who I saw.”

  “Let’s hope we can prove it,” she says, and Lucy has the same look in her eyes.

  Something is wrong.

  “This is what you really think?” I’m getting angry. “You think I was in shock, couldn’t see, was confused, and misidentified whoever was down there with a spear gun?”

  “We have to prove it,” Donoghue repeats. “I’m giving you a dose of what the opposition will say.”

  “And the opposition is the FBI,” I reply. “What a sad thing to contemplate and it seems I contemplate it all too often these days. When I was getting started I was told that law enforcement was a public service. We’re supposed to help people not host inquisitions and persecute.”

  “We absolutely view the FBI as the opposition,” Donoghue confirms. “And I’m warming you up to what they’ll say, what they’re already saying I’m willing to bet. We have to prove it absolutely was Carrie Grethen, that she absolutely isn’t dead, that she absolutely is the one shooting people, including you. We have to demonstrate that she absolutely is … What are they calling the sniper?”

  “Copperhead.”

  “Yes. That she’s Copperhead.”

  My eyes are on Lucy’s face as she stares stonily at the Japanese sitcom no one is watching. Then she looks at me and I don’t like what I’m seeing. I feel iced water around my heart. I hear a whisper of doom.

  Something is wrong!

  “I watched Carrie point a spear gun at me and pull the trigger.” I feel as if I’m defending myself to Donoghue, and I don’t like it. “She looked right at me from no more than twenty feet away and I watched her shoot me. I heard the first spear hit my tank and then the second spear hit. Except I didn’t hear that one. I felt it. I felt it like a cement truck slamming into my thigh.”

  “It must have hurt so bad!” Desi exclaims, as if what I’ve said is new information.

  It’s not. We’ve had many conversations about my being shot and what it means and did it hurt and was I afraid of dying? He wants to know all about death as he struggles to understand how it’s possible that he’ll never see his mother again. It’s not been easy for me to handle his questions.

  I understan
d biological death. It’s provable. A dead organism isn’t going to limber up and get warm again. It’s not going to move or speak or suddenly walk into a room. But I’m not going to talk to Desi about the clinical finality of nonlife, of physical nonexistence. I’m not going to instill fear and fatalism into the mind of a little boy who just lost his mother.

  It would be selfish and unkind of me not to use a metaphor, an analogy or two that might offer hope and comfort. Death is like a trip to a place that has no e-mail or phone. Or maybe think of it as time travel. Or something you can’t touch like the moon. I’ve gotten rather good at giving Desi unsound pathological explanations that I halfway believe.

  Marino drops the tube of anti-itch gel on the kitchen counter. “Come on, big buddy.”

  Janet is rubbing Desi’s back. “You must be getting stir-crazy. How ’bout a little fresh air before it rains?”

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  “Marino’s really good at fishing,” Lucy says. “He’s so good the fish have his picture up in the post office to warn everybody. Grab this man! Watch out! Reward offered!”

  “Fish don’t have a post office!”

  “How do you know that, huh? See you can’t unless you get some direct experience.” Marino picks up Desi and holds him high in the air as he shrieks in delight. “You want to know what kind of fish are in the water around here? You want to know what huge fish we could catch if we had poles right now?”

  Desi decides he does, and Marino takes him out. I hear them on the dock. Then I don’t.

  CHAPTER 22

  I DON’T HAVE THE MASK,” LUCY SAYS. “BUT I’VE got access to the recording.”

  “You didn’t recover my mask yourself.” I have to be sure she wasn’t anywhere near me when I lost it and almost died.

  “Of course not.”

  “You couldn’t have recovered it unless you were there when I was shot.” I’d be devastated if I found out she was.

  It would change the history of my life and my entire worldview if I found out she was there. It’s one of those things that I honestly might not want to know because the consequences would be irreversibly awful.