The Bishop

  “It means,” Cheyenne said, “that God still has big plans for you.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Then, the conversation veered away from God and fear and treasure-guarding serpents and returned to the tamer territory of favorite books and movies and pastimes, and I was thankful. But not long afterward, Cheyenne mentioned that she really needed to get going. “I’ll be sitting in on classes all day tomorrow,” she told me. “But I can help with the case in the evening. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done. At 5:00.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  After we’d all thanked her for coming and said our good-byes, she headed for the door.

  I debated whether or not to offer to walk her to her car, but in the end I decided against it. Cheyenne stepped outside, and I joined Lien-hua and Tessa, who were in the kitchen putting away the dishes and leftovers.

  A few moments later I heard Cheyenne’s car backing down the driveway.

  And then she was gone.

  71

  Brad entered the gas station to get a Mountain Dew.

  The clerk glanced up, and for a moment his eyes lingered on Brad’s face, at the deep scars. The man, whose name tag had only his first name, Juarez, looked a little uneasy then went back to chewing a glob of gum and texting someone on his phone.

  Brad found the soda, brought it to the counter. Set it down. Waited.

  Juarez didn’t bother to acknowledge him, until, in no particular hurry, he finished sending his text message. Then, without making eye contact with Brad, he muttered with a thick Spanish accent, “That all?”

  “Did you ever think about the two things technology tries to deliver us from?” Brad asked.

  Juarez finally looked at him. Worked the gum back and forth in his mouth. “Qué?”

  Brad gestured toward the clerk’s phone. “Technology. Whatever field you choose—industry, science, medicine, entertainment—technological advances are there either to create more diversions to occupy our time or to relieve our discomfort: so either to construct a fuller life or an easier one. Would you agree with that?”

  He shook his head and mumbled something in Spanish. Brad didn’t know the language well but recognized some of the words. He placed his hands flat on the counter beside the soda can. “Paradoxically, do you know the two aspects of human experience that offer us the most wisdom?”

  Juarez looked past him then, scanning the store as if he were expecting someone to step out and explain the joke to him. This time as he spoke to Brad, his tone turned caustic. “Did you want anything else with your Mountain Dew, señor—” Once again he slipped into speaking to Brad rather rudely in Spanish. Brad waited, studying his eyes, until he was done.

  Eventually, Brad saw the smirk fade and a wisp of uneasiness settle in. “Solitude and adversity,” he said softly. “Those are the two things that lead us to wisdom. Enough silence to facilitate reflection on the meaning of life, enough pain to cause us to consider its brevity. Quietude and suffering.”

  Brad still had both hands flat against the countertop, and Juarez was letting his eyes drift from Brad’s hands to his face, to his hands. He shifted his weight.

  “And yet, every technological advance is another desperate attempt to remove either silence or pain from our lives. Our society is constantly trying to cure itself of the very two things we need the most. Does that sound civilized to you?”

  The clerk did not reply. But he had stopped chewing his gum.

  Brad slid the soda toward him. “This will be all.”

  Juarez promptly rang up the purchase. Brad paid for it, then walked to the door, paused, flipped the “open” sign around so that the word “closed” faced the highway, then turned to the clerk. “Maybe I’ll have one more thing. Before I go.”

  72

  Tessa told me and Lien-hua that she was going to call it a day, even though I think we all knew she wouldn’t be heading to bed quite yet, then she left us alone in the living room. After a few minutes, Lien-hua mentioned she could use some fresh air, and I suggested we go to the back deck.

  As we entered the cool night I noticed there was just enough light from the moon for me to see across the yard to the stone wall where the doe had appeared yesterday morning.

  Grace and beauty. Pursued by fear.

  A small glance of kitchen light slipped out the window.

  For a little while Lien-hua and I spoke about the case, focusing on the possible links between the locations of the crimes. “I think we need to speak with the former vice president,” she concluded.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I might not be the right one to do that. Apparently, he’s on Lansing’s side in this custody dispute.”

  “I’ll talk to Margaret. We’ll take care of it.”

  A moment slid by, but it didn’t hold any awkwardness. The silence between us felt safe and familiar, almost inviting.

  At last she said, “I never really had the chance to talk with you about Calvin’s death. Are you doing all right?”

  “He was a good friend. He lived a full life, but even if he hadn’t been attacked like he was, he didn’t have much time left. He had congestive heart failure.”

  She saw right through my answer. “That sounds like something a counselor told you to say. How are you doing, really?”

  I hesitated. “I’m doing all right. I miss him, but it is what it is.”

  “Grief has different hues, Pat.” No psychoanalysis in her voice, just friendship. Understanding.

  “And they change over time.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  Then we were quiet again.

  The night was full of stillness and crickets and dewy moonlight. “What are you thinking?” she asked at last.

  “I was thinking about him again. Calvin. About the last time we were together before his coma.”

  She waited for me to go on.

  “We talked about justice, and I remember him asking me, ‘How far is one willing to go to see justice is carried out?’ I’ll never forget that question.”

  She processed that. “There’s no easy answer to that.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  I recalled the promise I’d made to Grant Sikora that I would not let Richard Basque hurt any more women, a promise I probably shouldn’t have made, but nevertheless felt compelled to carry out. And I remembered Ralph’s take on preemptive justice: “Identify a threat and eliminate it before it eliminates you.”

  “Or someone else,” I’d added.

  I walked to the edge of the deck, away from the light that fell from the kitchen window. “What do you think about preemptive justice?”

  “I don’t believe we should judge people on what they might do,” she said, “only on what they have done.”

  “And yet plotting a terrorist attack is a crime, right?”

  A slight pause. “Yes, it is.”

  I turned toward her. “And so is conspiracy—to commit murder, fraud, corrupt public morals, and so on. In those cases, we hold people accountable for their intentions, not their actions. In almost every country in the world, you don’t have to take any—”

  “Yes, I know: concrete or specific steps to put the crime into effect and you can still be convicted of conspiracy.” Her words were terse, but I sensed that she was more upset about the laws than at me for pointing them out. She went on, “But just because something is illegal doesn’t make it morally wrong; just because something is legal doesn’t make it morally right. In the 1940s it was legal to kill Jews in Germany.”

  Cheyenne’s words from our dinner conversation must have still been on my mind because I found myself thinking of the Middle Eastern countries where I’d consulted on cases and the Islamic laws that make it illegal to treat women with the dignity and respect they deserve. “That’s true,” I said. “Just because something is illegal doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  “And in the cases you mentioned,” she replied, “crimes of conspiracy or plotting terrorism—people are convicted for thei
r thoughts and intentions, not for their actions. But at different times all of us have desires and intentions that are immoral.”

  I thought I could see where this was going. “So if you take preemptive justice to its logical end, all of us would end up in prison.”

  “That’s overstating things, Pat, but my point is, we can change our minds. That’s part of what makes us human. Call it preemptive justice if you want to, but I don’t think there’s any justice in predicting what someone might do and then punishing him for it. It’s not our job to police people’s thoughts or imprison them for things they haven’t done.”

  I was quiet.

  She looked at me with concern. “What is this about?”

  “It’s something that’s been on my mind lately.”

  “Something you want to talk about?”

  “Something I need to think about.”

  Even though I wasn’t sure it would help get my mind off Basque and my promise to Sikora, I transitioned the conversation back to the case and reviewed the results of my geoprofile, but all the while I sensed that Lien-hua was listening to something that lay beneath my words; that she was reading my inner thoughts and . . . well . . . my truer, deeper motives.

  Brad climbed into his car and started the engine.

  He’d made sure the gas station’s video surveillance footage was destroyed and that the young man who’d been working behind the counter would not be sharing news of their conversation with anyone.

  He guided the car onto the road and had driven about a quarter of a mile when he heard the explosion behind him and, in the rearview, saw the plume of fire mushrooming toward the sky.

  Based on the rural location, the lack of traffic, the time of night, and the probable emergency services response time, he figured it would be at least fifteen minutes before any fire suppression units or ambulances arrived.

  He made the anonymous call to WXTN News, crushed the prepaid cell phone beneath the wheels of the car, discarded the splintered fragments of technology in the woods. Then, he drove to a parking lot beside the entrance to the state park eight miles down the road from the burning gas station.

  To wait for Astrid.

  When I was done summarizing the geoprofile, I asked Lien-hua about the psychological profile she’d been working on, and she commiserated with me about the difficulty of forming a profile for multiple offenders. I agreed that I couldn’t even begin to imagine how hard that would be.

  “Is that a touch of cynicism I hear?”

  “No, admiration.”

  Inside the house, Tessa flicked off the kitchen lights, leaving the deck unlit. Moonlight washed across the yard and gently embraced Lien-hua. I told her, “Understanding people, probing their motives, it’s not something I’ve ever been . . .”

  “Very excited about.”

  “Very good at. I read people about as good as I use chopsticks.”

  She looked at me closely. “If you were profiling me, Pat, what would you say?”

  “Oh, I can’t do that.”

  “Give it a shot.”

  “Lien-hua, I’m neither trained nor qualified to—”

  “Humor me.” Her voice had a light smile in it. “Then we can both just laugh about it when you’re done.”

  “Let’s just laugh about it now; save some time.”

  She tilted her head. “How about this: when you’re finished, I’ll profile you.”

  “You’re not going to let this drop, are you?”

  “I’m a persistent woman. I usually end up getting what I want.”

  Oh, boy.

  I gave in. “All right. Let’s see . . . The suspect is—”

  “Suspect?”

  “Of course.”

  “What am I suspected of?”

  Let’s see . . . crimes of passion . . . stealing hearts . . .

  “Just trying to be official here.” Then I cleared my throat slightly. “The suspect is of Asian descent, early thirties, slim build—”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Black hair. Athletic. Attractive.”

  She nodded her appreciation for that last one. “You’re doing very nicely so far.”

  “Thank you. Poised but not overbearing, she has a deeply reflective mind, keen mental acuity . . .”

  I debated whether or not to go on, to say the things I was really thinking. If I did, if I said them, a line would be drawn through the sand of this moment, there was no doubt about that.

  Tell her, Pat.

  You’ll regret it if you don’t, if you shy away.

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  “No.” I took a small breath. “She feels both strongest and weakest, safest and most free when she’s in the arms of a confident man. She’s a woman who can take care of herself but is flattered and honored when a man offers himself to her, to take care of her.”

  She stood quietly beside me in the moonlight.

  I waited for her to reply, heart pounding in my chest.

  “Your turn,” I said.

  “Caucasian.” Her voice was soft. Velvet. “Mid-thirties. Tall. Athletic.”

  “Handsome,” I offered, in case she needed any additional ideas.

  “Hmm . . . Good-looking. In a scruffy sort of way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. He believes in justice, is courageous enough to look for truth despite the consequences, and gets shot too many times because he doesn’t like waiting for backup.”

  “You’ve been talking with Tessa.”

  “Maybe.”

  She paused, spoke more slowly now. “He loves life deeply, passionately, and does not do anything halfway.” She hesitated but then went on, “Since the death of his wife, he’s had trouble entrusting his feelings to others, and that’s caused him to drift away from the people he cares about most. He aches for intimacy yet is losing confidence that he will ever find it again.”

  The truth of her words shattered me and lifted me. A healing wound—

  “Still,” she said, “his heart has moved past Christie, and he’s in love with another suspect, but he’s confused because he doesn’t want to take what she’s not willing to give.”

  We were both quiet then, and the sound of crickets beneath the porch filled the space left open in the night.

  He’s in love with another suspect . . .

  He aches for intimacy . . .

  But then her comments from Tuesday night came to mind: “We need to move on . . . People see each other, they break up, they find a way to work together again.”

  I found myself resisting her and giving in at the same time, the strange give and take of attraction. “And what is she willing to give?” I said softly. “This subject with whom he is in love?”

  Her eyes left mine, wandered toward the deep woods. “First, a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to know.” Then a long pause. “Are you seeing her?”

  I knew immediately. “Cheyenne?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  She waited for more.

  No woman wants to be strung along while you play the field looking for someone better.

  “It’s true.” I felt no duplicity in saying the words, but, because I knew how Cheyenne felt about me, I did feel a ripple of sadness. It seemed like no matter what I chose to say to Lien-hua, I would end up hurting someone in the end.

  I repeated, maybe for Lien-hua’s sake, maybe for mine, “Cheyenne and I are just friends.”

  “Pat, when a woman looks at a man the way she looks at you, she’s more than a friend. Or she wants to be.”

  My heart was hammering, not just from the desire to take Lien-hua in my arms and see where the moment might lead, but also from the terrifying truth of her words: He’s in love . . . he aches for intimacy . . . he’s confused . . .

  “At one time,” I said, “we were almost more than friends, but . . .” There was so much to say, to explain, but right now, only one
thing really mattered, and I let myself say it. “Whenever I was alone with her, I ended up thinking about you.”

  Lien-hua gazed at me in the gentle night, the moonlight playing in her rich ebony hair. “If I were to ask you what you want, Patrick Bowers, right now, in this moment, what would you say?”

  The answer was simple. Clear. Immediate. “That I want to be with you.” I took a tight, uncertain breath. “What about you? What do you want?”

  Softly, she put her hand on the side of my neck, her thumb gracing my cheek, and for a long tenuous moment she looked into my eyes, hiding nothing.

  Then, she drew me close and answered my question with a kiss.

  And I answered her back.

  73

  Astrid joined Brad in the car he’d stolen especially for tonight.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She slipped on the wig.

  Tucked her hair beneath it.

  As far as they knew, the Marine at the gate to Quantico had never seen Brad, so that wouldn’t be a problem, but the soldier had almost certainly seen her.

  Long ago she’d discovered that even though women tend to remember the features of a man’s face, men recognize women not so much by their facial features but rather by their figure, clothing, and hair. Most women learn this eventually: if you change your hair color, put on a distinctively different outfit, lose some weight, the men in your life, at least those on the periphery, will barely recognize you.

  And so she was confident that tonight, even if the guard had already seen the woman she was impersonating, it wouldn’t matter. Especially since Astrid was using the fake driver’s license Brad had acquired and the same model car as the woman drove—he’d even borrowed the actual plates from her vehicle for this evening.

  “She won’t notice that they’re missing,” he’d told Astrid yesterday. “No one would notice that their license plates were changed. It’s one of those things you just don’t pay attention to.”