The Face of Death

  “What’s so funny?”

  Just thinking about you dying, she’d thought.

  “Nothing,” she’d said.

  She didn’t think about Dean and Laurel if she could help it. Laurel wasn’t exactly an awesome mom, she was no Desiree as a foster-mother, but she wasn’t bad. There were moments of genuine care, times when Sarah could feel Laurel’s interest in her well-being. So Sarah kept to herself as much as she could.

  She was in her room, on her computer, when he appeared. It was early afternoon. He had the stocking over his face. He was smiling. Always smiling.

  “Hello, Little Pain.”

  She said nothing. Just waited. That’s what she did, these days. She said little, felt less, and waited.

  He’d come over and sat down on the bed.

  “You got my note, and you believed me. That’s very good, Sarah, because I told the truth. Theresa is alive, and you’ve kept her that way.”

  She found her voice. “Did you hurt her?”

  “Yes. And when we’re done here, I’m going to go home and hurt her some more. But as long as you do what I tell you, I won’t kill her.”

  Sarah felt something new clambering through the wreckage inside her. It took her a moment to identify it, and then she did.

  Hate. She felt hate.

  “I hate you,” she told him. Her voice didn’t sound angry to her ears. It sounded normal. It sounded like someone speaking the truth.

  “I know,” he acknowledged. “Now listen to me. I’m going to tell you what to do. When I am done, you’ll give me your answer.”

  55

  SARAH HAS LIFTED HER FACE FROM HER KNEES AND IS NOW looking at me. I see an exhaustion that dismays me. This is the face of someone who’s already given up.

  “What did he tell you?” I ask. I’m careful to keep my voice free of anything—anything—that she might misconstrue as judgment.

  She looks away from me.

  “He told me he needed the password from Michael’s computer. He told me that he was going to lead the cops to the wrong man, and that I was going to help him. By writing my diary. By asking for you.”

  “He wanted you to ask for me specifically?”

  Her voice is toneless. “Yes.”

  “What did he mean by the wrong man?”

  “He told me that he had more work to do. I don’t know what he meant by that. He said that at one point he was planning to give himself up, but then he changed his mind.”

  I digest this. Two thoughts:

  One: James was right about him.

  Two: It’s not Cabrera.

  Then, a question:

  Why is Cabrera involved?

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

  She looks at me now, and the look is speculative, calculating. Someone with a huge truth to tell, but someone weighing the risks of telling that truth.

  “Sarah. I understand what he did here. He did the same thing to you that he did to your mom, to Cathy Jones, to all the others. He took someone you loved, and used them to force you to do things, to agree to things.” I catch her eyes. “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. You need to look at me, listen to me, and believe that.”

  Her face begins to redden. Whether with grief or anger, I don’t know.

  “But—but, I knew! I knew he would come do things to Dean and Laurel and Michael. And”—she takes in a huge breath, a whoop—“when he made me slit Michael’s throat, all I could think of was how I’d smiled when I thought about him d-d-d-d-dying, and then you, lying to you, and—and—and the man blowing up things at your building today, people got hurt, people got killed and”—her face goes white now—“I could have led him here. He could have hurt Bonnie and Elaina. I knew.”

  “He wanted you to know, Sarah,” I say.

  She stands up and walks, back and forth, back and forth, tears running down her face.

  “It’s more, though, Smoky. He told me if I did what he said, he’d let them go.”

  “Who?”

  “Theresa and another girl, he said her name was Jessica.”

  I sag, angered and dismayed at the same time. He’d made Sarah responsible for the lives of many, given her an impossible burden and a sack of impossible choices to go with it.

  I think of the footprints found at the Kingsley scene and of my earlier question about Cabrera. Perhaps he was involved because he had scars on his feet too. Maybe he had his own score to settle?

  “Was the other man there, Sarah? At Dean and Laurel’s?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  Maybe Cabrera was there but you just never saw him. Maybe he only had one job—to stand barefoot on the tile.

  “Is there anything else, Sarah? Anything you think I need to know?”

  Again, that look. Calculating.

  “He wanted me to do one more thing, after you killed the wrong guy. One last thing and then he’d let her go.”

  “What?”

  “He wanted me to fuck him.”

  I stare at her, unable to speak for a moment. Here it is, I think. The cherry on the top of his pain-is-pleasure sundae.

  A new look, now, on that young-but-old face. It’s a look of determination, mixed with a coldness that it takes me a moment to place.

  Kirby.

  That’s what Kirby looks like when she doesn’t hide her real eyes.

  “He said whatever was going to happen was going to happen in a week or so. I was going to do what he wanted, make sure Theresa was safe, and then I was going to kill him and then kill myself.”

  She says it with such certainty that I can’t doubt her.

  “Theresa has to live, Smoky.” She sits on the bed again, puts her forehead back down on her knees. “I’m sorry. For what I did. It’s my fault that Dean and Laurel and Michael are dead. It’s my fault about your building. I’m bad. I’m a bad person.”

  She begins to rock now, back and forth, back and forth. The door opens. Elaina.

  “I was listening,” she says to me, unapologetic. She walks over to Sarah, who tries to back away from her. Elaina ignores this, and grabs on to Sarah, hugging as best she can while the girl fights her. “You listen to me,” Elaina says, her voice fierce. “You’re not bad. You’re not evil. And whatever happens—whatever happens—you’ve got me. Understand? You’ve got me.”

  Elaina isn’t trying to tell her that things aren’t bad. She’s just telling her she’s not alone.

  Sarah doesn’t hug Elaina back, but she stops fighting. She keeps her head down and shakes as Elaina strokes her hair.

  I sit at the old-fashioned Formica-top kitchen table with Kirby and Callie. AD Jones and Alan are on my cell, and the speakerphone is on. I have filled everyone in on my conversation with Sarah.

  “We have a serious problem, sir,” I say. “Well, a number, actually, but one in particular. Even if we can figure out a way to take down Cabrera without killing him—we don’t have a shred of evidence against The Stranger. We don’t know who he is. He’s never shown Sarah his face. And I’m guessing the footprints at the Kingsley scene belong to Cabrera, not The Stranger.”

  “Cabrera might know who he is,” Alan observes.

  “True,” I reply. “But if not, we’re in trouble.”

  “Deal with what’s in front of you,” AD Jones replies.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So…what? Cabrera is supposed to be the fall guy?”

  “Not just the fall guy. The dead fall guy. I’m pretty certain he’s supposed to commit suicide-by-cop. Probably at his house. I’m sure if we kill him we’ll find all kinds of evidence that shows us he’s our perp.”

  “And the cuckoo-bird goes free,” Kirby chimes in.

  Phone silence as AD Jones ponders this. “So what’s the plan?”

  I tell him. He peppers me with questions, ponders it some more, and asks even more questions.

  “Approved,” he says, finally. “But be careful. And Smoky? He killed three agents. Safety of my agents comes first, his safety come
s last. You understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Of course I do. He’s telling me to kill Cabrera if it will save Bureau lives.

  “I’ll get SWAT together. You get your ass over here and let’s get this op on the road.”

  “You’re fine with Kirby, then, sir?”

  “I’m not sure that ‘fine’ is the right word, but I agree with the plan.”

  Kirby is smart enough to keep her mouth shut, but she gives me a big grin and a thumbs-up. She’s happy, a child getting the birthday gift she’d asked for.

  “See you shortly.” I hang up.

  “Since I’m staying here on bodyguard duty,” Callie says, her voice dry, “I only have one question.”

  “What’s that, Cal?” Kirby asks.

  “Where’s the coffeepot?”

  Kirby shrugs. “Bad news on that one, Cal. No coffee here. Besides, it’s bad for you. All kinds of chemicals in coffee. Yuck.”

  Callie fixes her with an incredulous look. “How dare you criticize my religious beliefs?”

  Joking, as always, but to me her voice sounds strained. I look, really look, and I see that she’s gone a little pale. For the first time I think I understand how constant this battle is for her. The pain never ends, and she’s fighting it, but it’s taking its toll.

  It’s funny, of all the recent terrible things I’ve seen or read, this is the one that sucker punches me: the idea of Callie being worn down by something.

  I walk into the bedroom. Sarah’s stopped shaking, but she looks terrible. Whatever she’s used to hold herself together over the years has unraveled. She’s falling apart. Elaina strokes her hair while Bonnie holds her hand.

  I tell them what we’re doing. Sarah’s eyes come alive.

  Well, more alive.

  “Will it work?” she asks.

  “I think so.”

  She looks at me then, really looks at me.

  “Smoky…” Her voice trails off for a moment. “Whatever happens, don’t let him hurt you or anyone else. Even if it means”—her voice cracks—“that it doesn’t all work out the way I want it to. I can’t be responsible for this anymore. No more. No more.”

  “You’re not responsible, Sarah. Let it go. It’s up to us now.”

  She looks away, and that’s all she’s going to say for now. Bonnie catches my eye and gives me a look.

  Be careful, she’s saying.

  I smile.

  “Always.”

  Elaina nods at me, bald and wonderful, and turns her inner beauty back to Sarah. If anyone can revive that girl’s soul, Elaina can.

  Kirby appears at the door. “Ready to rock?” she asks, ever perky.

  Not really, I think, but let’s go.

  56

  EVERY FBI FIELD OFFICE HAS ITS OWN SWAT TEAM. LIKE POLICE SWAT, they spend every working hour training, unless they’re handling an actual situation. They keep themselves on the knife-edge and they look it.

  The team leader is an agent named Brady. I don’t know Brady’s first name. I only know him as Brady. He’s in his mid-forties. He keeps his dark hair short and tight, military-style. He’s tall, very tall, probably six foot four, with an all-business amiableness to him that is neither friendly nor unfriendly. Shaking hands with him is like shaking hands with a rock.

  “This is your show, Agent Barrett,” he says. “Just tell us what you need.”

  We’re in the conference room on the floor below my offices. Everyone’s present and looking grim. Except for Kirby. She’s gazing at the six members of the SWAT team in a hungry way, like they’re a bunch of yummy, overly fit hot fudge sundaes.

  “Gustavo Cabrera,” I begin, dropping an eight-by-ten photo we’d printed out of him. “Thirty-eight years old. He lives in a house in the Hollywood Hills. Big place, old place, sitting on four acres of land.”

  One of the SWAT members whistles. “That’ll be worth some dough.”

  “We have maps of the location, as well as plans for the house.” I drop them onto the table. “Here’s the thing: We need him alive. But we’re pretty sure that he’s been told to get himself killed. He’s probably got a decent arsenal, and I imagine he’s supposed to make it look authentic.”

  “Swell,” Brady says in a dry voice.

  “On top of that, we need it to look authentic too. We don’t want to kill Cabrera. But we want The Stranger to think we did.”

  “How are we going to do that, exactly? Without getting ourselves shot to hell, I mean?”

  “Diversion, boys,” Kirby says, stepping forward. “Diversion.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Brady asks.

  “Just a blonde with a gun,” she drawls, in a fair imitation of him.

  “No offense, ma’am,” one of the younger members of the SWAT team says, “but you look about as dangerous as my girlfriend’s poodle.”

  Kirby grins at the young SWAT officer, and winks. “Is that right?”

  She walks over to him. His nametag says Boone. He’s stocky, muscular, and very sure of himself. Classic type-A.

  “Check it out, Boone,” she says to him.

  It happens in a blur. She slams a fist into Boone’s solar plexus. His eyes bug out as he falls to his knees, gasping for air. In the instant it takes the other SWAT team members to react, she’s pulled her gun and pointed it quickly at each one, saying: “Bang, bang, bang, bang—”

  “Bang,” Brady says, in time with her. He’d managed to whip out his weapon and point it at Kirby before she’d pointed hers at him.

  She holds the pose for a moment, considering. Then grins and holsters her weapon. She ignores Boone, who’s breathing again and is taking in huge, whooping gasps of air.

  “Pretty good, old dude,” she says. “Guess that’s why you’re the boss-man, huh?”

  He grins back at her. It’s like watching two wolves get along.

  “Get up, Boone,” he barks. “And let it go.”

  The young SWAT officer struggles to his feet. He shoots Kirby a dark look. She waggles a finger at him.

  “Are we done with the testosterone display?” AD Jones asks. “Both the male and the female version?”

  “He started it,” Kirby observes. “If he’d been nicer, I would have touched him somewhere else.”

  Everyone chuckles. Even Boone smiles, against his will. I see Brady appraising Kirby, realizing the same thing I have. Kirby isn’t just a good operative. She’s command material. In her own haphazard way she’s managed to relieve the tension in the room, lighten the mood, and get the guys to like and respect her at the same time. It’s impressive.

  “So what’s your name?” Brady asks.

  “Kirby. But you can call me ‘Killer,’ if you want.” She flashes him a smile. “All my friends do.”

  “You have many friends?”

  “Nope.”

  He nods. “Me neither. So explain what you meant by ‘diversion.’”

  “Sure thing. You and your macho killer commando squad hit the front, by the book. Bullhorns and ‘Give up! Give up!’ and all that stuff. While you’re doing that, and he’s distracted, Smoky and I will go in through the back.”

  “Quiet, you mean?”

  “Smooth as my inner thigh. And that’s smoooooth, Mr. Brady, sir.”

  “Uh-huh. And you don’t think he’ll be watching the back?”

  “Maybe. But that’s why you’ll have to blow some stuff up.”

  Brady raises an eyebrow. “Come again?”

  “Blow some stuff up. You know—‘kaboom.’”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “Can’t you drop a bomb on his lawn or something?”

  Brady looks at Kirby, thinking. He nods his head.

  “Okay, youngster. The concept’s sound. But I think we can execute a little better and not have to—how’d you put it?—‘blow some stuff up’?”

  Kirby shrugs. “Whatever. I thought you guys liked blowing stuff up.”

  “Oh, we do,” he assures her. “We
just try to avoid it unless we have to. Makes the neighbors nervous.” He leans forward and spreads out the map of the estate. “Here’s what I propose. We’re going to have a problem anyway with the size of the grounds if we come on foot. He’ll see us from a mile away. Shit, he could have the place mined for all we know. We’ll go in from the air, instead.”

  “Chopper?” Alan asks.

  “Yep.” He points to a position in front of the house. “We’ll hover up and at an angle. Makes it harder for him to get a shot. We’ll have to hope he doesn’t have a bazooka or some such nonsense. We’ll lay out a field of fire. Real serious shit—I think I can get our hands on some fifty cals—along with some smoke grenades. Get his attention, make it sound like World War Three out front.”

  “Okay,” Kirby says.

  “Yeah. While all that’s happening, you two will make your way to the back. Then on your mark, we’ll fill the place with tear gas. You in-filtrate and…” He spreads his hands.

  “And hopefully we don’t have to kill the poor guy,” Kirby finishes for him.

  Brady looks at me. “How’s that sound?”

  “Like a really bad idea,” I say, “but the best under the circumstances.” I check my watch. “It’s four o’clock now. How soon can you be ready?”

  “We can be airborne in a half hour. What about you? You’ll need vests and masks.”

  “No vest for me,” Kirby pipes up. “Just slows me down. I’ll take a mask, though.”

  “Your funeral.” Brady shrugs.

  She punches him on the arm. “You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that before.”

  Just like Alan had a day earlier, Brady looks surprised and rubs his arm where she’d punched him. “Ow.”

  “That’s what they all say,” she quips. “So can we go shoot some stuff now?” She holds up the weapon she’d drawn earlier. “New gun,” she explains. “I need to break it in.”