Of course, I know there isn’t really a good answer to that unending question. Why me? I’m a good mother/father/brother/daughter/son. I keep my head down, do my best. Sure, I lie a little, but I tell the truth more than I lie, and I love the people in my life the best I can. I try to do more right than wrong, and I’m happier when there are more smiles than pain. I’m no hero; I’m not going to end up in any history books. But I’m here, and I matter. So why me?
I can’t tell them what I really think. Why? Because you breathe and walk, and because evil does exist. Because the cosmic dice were rolled and you came up short. God either forgot about you that day, or it’s a part of His master plan, pick your belief. The truth is, bad things are going to happen somewhere, every single day, and today was just your turn.
Some people might call that a bleak or cynical outlook. To me, it’s what keeps me sane. Otherwise you start thinking that maybe it’s the bad guys who have the edge. I prefer to think, Nope. No edge. The simple fact is that evil preys on good, and today, good had a bad day. Which brings with it an acceptance of the other side of that argument, that tomorrow might be evil’s turn for some rain. And that’s called hope.
None of this is helpful when they ask why, so I tell them some lesser truth like the one that I just gave Elaina. Sometimes it eases their pain, sometimes it doesn’t. Usually it doesn’t, because the fact is, if you have to ask the question, then you don’t really care about the answer.
She mulls this over. When she looks back at me, I see an unfamiliar emotion on her face. Anger. “Get this man, Smoky. Do you hear me?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“Good. I know you will.” She sits up. “Now, can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.” I mean it. If she asked me to pull a star down from the sky right now, I’d do my best.
“Tell Alan to come up here when you go down. I know him. He’s sitting there blaming himself. Tell him to knock it off. I need him.”
Shaken but back as strong as ever. I realize afresh something I’ve known for a long time: I love this woman. “I will.” I turn to Bonnie. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
She shakes her head. No. Pats a hand on Elaina’s shoulder, then grips it, possessive. I frown. “Honey, I think we need to leave Elaina and Alan alone tonight.”
She shakes her head again, fierce now. No way, José.
“It would be fine with me for her to stay, if you don’t mind. Bonnie’s lovely.”
I look at Elaina, dumbfounded. “Are you sure?”
She reaches over, strokes Bonnie’s hair. “I’m sure.”
“Well…okay.” Besides, I think to myself, it would take a miracle to pry her away from Elaina right now. “Then I’ll go. Bonnie, I’ll come see you in the morning, honey.”
She nods. I head out the door, turn as I hear small footsteps behind me. Bonnie has gotten off the bed and is looking up at me. She snags my arm, pulls me down to her level. Her face is filled with concern.
“What, honey?”
She pats herself, reaches over and pats me. Does this again, insistent. And again, the concern growing on her face. Then I get it. It makes my face flush, my eyes prick with tears. I’m with you, she’s saying. I’m only staying here to help Elaina. But I’m with you. She wants to make sure I understand. Yes, Elaina is Mom. But I’m with you.
I don’t speak. Instead, I nod in reply and hug her to me before leaving the room.
Downstairs, Alan is standing and staring out the window at the coming dusk.
“She’s going to be okay, Alan. She wanted me to tell you to stop blaming yourself and that she needs you. Oh, and you have Bonnie for tonight. She refused to leave Elaina.”
This seems to perk him up. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. She’s being very protective.” I poke him in the chest. “You know I sympathize, Alan. You know I do. But you need to get your ass up there and hug your wife.” I smile. “Bonnie’s got your back.”
“Yeah,” he says, after a space of time. “You’re right. Thanks.”
“No problem. And, Alan? If you need time off tomorrow, take it.”
His face is somber. “No fucking way, Smoky. They got what they wanted. I’m after those motherfuckers till they’re caught or dead.” He smiles, and this time, it’s a scary smile. “I think they’re going to get more than they bargained for.”
“Damn right,” I reply.
30
THE DRIVE BACK feels lonely. Keenan and Shantz are where they should be, with Bonnie, so I really am alone. It’s dark out, and highways at night have a distinct, isolated feel to them. At times in my life this has been a welcome feeling. This isolation is filled with angry thoughts, sadness, and me gripping the steering wheel, imagining it’s Jack Jr.’s neck. The moon shines strong. Somewhere in me, I know it’s a beautiful light. Tonight, it reminds me of the times I’ve seen blood pooled in the moonlight. Black and reflective and final.
I ride through the moonlight that reminds me of blood all the way home. I’m pulling into the driveway when my cell phone rings.
“It’s James.”
I sit straight up. There is something in his voice I’ve never heard before. “James? What is it?”
His voice is trembling. “Those—those motherfuckers!”
Jack Jr.
“Tell me what happened, James.”
I can hear his breathing over the phone. “I got to my mom’s house about twenty minutes ago. I was going up to knock on the door when I noticed an envelope was taped to it. It had my name on it. So I opened it up.” He takes a deep breath. “It had a note in it, and—and…”
“What?”
“A ring. Rosa’s ring.”
Rosa was James’s sister, the one who had died. The one whose grave he was going to visit tomorrow with his mother. A dark understanding is starting to flutter in the back of my mind. “What did the note say, James?”
“Just one line. Rosa, no longer R.I.P.”
I feel a plummeting sensation in my stomach.
James’s voice is desperate. “The ring in that envelope, Smoky? We buried her with it. Do you understand?”
The fluttering is becoming noisier, like bats’ wings. I don’t respond.
“So I called the cemetery. Got hold of security. And they went out and verified it.”
“Verified what, James?” I think I know, but I ask because I hope I’m wrong. The bats’ wings are in full roar now.
He takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is breaking. “She’s gone, Smoky. Rosa. Those fuckers dug up her grave.”
I lay my forehead against the steering wheel. The fluttering is silent now. “Oh, James…”
“Do you know how old she was when that scumbag murdered her, Smoky? Twenty. Twenty and she was smart and kind and beautiful and it took him three days to kill her. That’s what they told me. Three days. You know how long it took my mother to stop crying about it?” Now he screams. “Never!”
I sit up. My eyes are still closed. I know what it is that I hear in James’s voice that is so foreign. Grief. Grief and vulnerability. “I don’t know what to say. Are you…do you want me to come over? What do you want to do?” My words echo how I feel inside. Helpless.
There’s a long silence, followed by a ragged sigh. “No. My mother’s upstairs, curled up and sobbing and pulling at her hair. I need to go to her, I need to…” He trails off. “They’re doing what they said they were going to do.”
I feel empty. “Yeah.” I tell him about Elaina.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouts. I can almost feel him struggling to get himself under control. “Motherfucker.” More silence. “I’ll handle it. Don’t come over. I have a feeling you’ll be getting another phone call tonight.”
My stomach flutters. He said he was going to make each of us lose something. He still has Leo to go.
“I want this scumbag, Smoky. I want him bad.”
I’ve heard these words, in different ways, two other times today. The thought of hearing them aga
in fills me with both anger and despair. I manage to keep my voice even. “Me too, James. Go help your mom. Call me if you need me.”
“I won’t need you.”
So much for grief and vulnerability.
He hangs up and I sit in my car in my driveway, looking up at the moon. For a minute, just a minute, I’m consumed by one of those selfish, self-absorbed moments only life-or-death leadership positions can bring. These people are my responsibility. I feel that I am failing them, but in this selfish moment, I don’t worry about their well-being—I only wish that it wasn’t my responsibility.
I grip the steering wheel, and I twist it hard.
“It is your responsibility,” I whisper, and the selfishness goes away, replaced by white-hot hate.
So I do something I’ve done before: I scream inside my car, pounding the steering wheel, under the fucking moon.
Smoky therapy.
31
WHEN I GET inside, I dial Leo’s cell number. It rings and rings. “Goddammit, Leo, pick up!” I snarl.
Then he does. His voice sounds tired and dead, and my heart sinks. “Hello?”
“Leo! Where are you?”
“I’m at the vet with my dog, Smoky.”
The normality of this lifts my hopes, for just a moment.
“Someone cut off all his legs. I have to put him down.” I stand, gaping. Poleaxed. Then his voice breaks. The clean, poignant break of a china plate hitting brick. “Who would do something like that, Smoky? I got home and he was there in the living room, trying to…trying to…” His grief makes him sound like he is gagging, as he finds the words. “Trying to crawl to me. There was blood everywhere, and he was making these awful sounds, like…like a baby. Looking at me with those eyes, it was like…he looked like he thought he’d done something wrong. Like he was asking me, ‘What, what did I do wrong? I’ll fix it, just tell me. See? I’m a good dog.’”
Tears track down my cheeks.
“Who would do something like that?”
If he really thought about it, he’d know who. What he’s really saying is that no one should exist who could do this. “Jack Jr. and friend, Leo. That’s who.”
I hear him gasp, and it is filled with agony. “What?”
“They either did it or had someone do it. But it was them.”
I sense him putting it all together. “What they said in that e-mail…”
“Yeah.” Yes, Leo, I think. They do exist, and what they did to your dog, that was nothing to them.
A long, hard silence. I can imagine his thoughts. My dog was tortured because of who I am. Guilt coming home to roost, debilitating and awful. He clears his throat, a miserable sound. “Who else, Smoky?”
So I take a breath and I tell him. About Elaina and James. Omitting the specifics of Elaina’s illness. He’s quiet when I’m done. I wait him out.
“I’ll be fine.” It’s a short statement, and full of lies. But he’s letting me know he understands.
I say the phrase again, the one I’m growing to hate. “Call me if you need me.”
“Yeah.”
I hang up and stand there for a moment in my kitchen, forehead in one hand. I can’t get that picture out of my mind. Those pleading eyes. What did I do wrong…? And the answer is a terrible one, all the more terrible because the dog will die never knowing the truth.
Nothing. You did nothing wrong.
“They’re really turning up the volume,” Callie says.
“Yeah. I wanted you to know. Be careful.”
“Both ways on that, honey-love.”
“Don’t worry.”
After hanging up, I go to the kitchen table, sit down, put my head in my hands. This has been the worst day in a long time. I feel beaten up and I feel sad and I feel empty. I also feel alone.
Callie had her daughter, Alan had Elaina. Who did I have?
So I cry. It makes me feel silly and weak, but I do it because I can’t help it. It goes on long enough that it makes me feel angry, and I wipe my face with my hands, willing the weakness away. “Stop with the pity party already,” I growl to myself. “Fact is, this is your own fault. You wouldn’t let them come and be with you when you were hurting, so if you want to blame anyone, blame yourself.”
I feel anger building, and I go with it. It dries my eyes. Jack Jr. and his buddy were messing with my family. They were reaching into their lives and harming the most intimate parts of them.
“They’re dead meat,” I say to the empty house. Which makes me smile. Still loony after all these months, giving pep talks to the air.
This is it, I realize. The new me. The way it’s going to stay. I still have the dragon waking up inside me, and I can still see the dark train and fire my gun. But I’m not built from straight lines and certainty anymore. I bounce and jostle, and parts of me get knocked out of place. I have a new feature: fragility. It is alien, I don’t really like it—but it’s the truth.
I move up the stairs toward my bedroom, feeling like I’m dragging chains behind me, I’m so tired. So much emotion.
I pass the little home office Matt had set up for us, and something makes me stop and peer in. I see my computer, dust-covered and unused for so many months. And I wonder.
I sit down in front of it, wait as it powers up. Do I still have an Internet connection? I can’t remember how it’s billed. But I open up a browser and see that I do. I lean back for a moment, looking at the icon on my desktop that leads to my e-mail program. Thinking.
I double-click it and it opens up. I hesitate for a moment, then click the check mail button. All kinds of things begin to download. Months of messages and spam ignored. What I thought I might see is there as well. The most recent message, sent just an hour ago. The subject is How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?
I feel energized by my hatred of him at this moment.
I open it up, and read.
Dearest Smoky,
By now I'm sure that you've found I am a man of my word.
Callie Thorne has had to face her daughter, Alan Washington's wife has to wonder if she's going to die. Poor Leo, he's grappling with the untimely demise of man's best friend. As for young James—well…I'm looking at Rosa as I write this. She's a bit worse for wear, but you would be amazed at the efficacy of the preserving fluids they use on the dead. Her eyes are gone, but her hair still looks lovely. Be sure to pass that along to James for me, will you?
I think vengeance is the most effective way to sharpen a sword, don't you? Well, think about it. If you didn't think so before, I'm sure that you do now. How you all must want my blood! Perhaps some of you will even dream about it. Me, begging for mercy and receiving none. You, giving me a bullet in the head instead of a jail cell.
But there are two sides to this coin, and I wish to up the ante. To make something clear, if it is not already so: Nothing you hold dear is safe.
Hunt me well, because as long as I am out here, free to slink through the woods at the edges of civilization, I will take and take and take from you. These things I have now touched and taken will seem like nothing.
Every week that you fail to catch me, I will take something from each of you. I will take Callie Thorne's long-lost daughter and grandchild. I will take Alan's wife. I will kill James's mother. On and on and on until everyone lives the life you do, Smoky. Until everything they love is gone, until their houses are empty and they are left with only one thing: the terrible knowledge that all of it happened because of who they are and what they do.
I hope you know by now that I mean what I say. And I hope this ever-present gun to the head provides the final impetus needed to bring you all to a state of focused readiness. I need you, all of you, honed. I need you to have killer's eyes.
Now run along and do your best. You have one week. During that time, the things you love are safe. After that, I begin to eat your worlds, and your souls begin to die.
Can you feel the excitement? I know that I can. Best of luck.
From Hell,
Jack
Jr.
P.S. Agent Thorne, perhaps you are wondering—did I really take something from you? Perhaps, in truth, you feel I have done you a service by mistake. In some ways, this may be possible. But think upon it more. Perhaps I simply reminded you of what you have lost forever. Have you figured it out yet? What have you lost?
I look at these words for a long, long time, sitting here in my empty home. I’m not sorrowful, or even angry. Instead, I am filled with what they wanted all along.
Certainty.
I will die before anyone else in my small family ends up as I have: talking to themselves as they weep alone.
32
IT IS MORNING, and I have given the team an edited version of Jack Jr.’s e-mail. I look at them, take stock of my troops.
They all look like hell. But they all look angry. No one is interested in talking about what happened. They want to hunt. And they look to me for guidance, waiting.
It’s funny, I think. Responsibility is such an easy coat to put on, such a hard one to take off. Just a week ago, I was thinking about blowing my brains out. Now they want me to tell them what to do.
“Well,” I say, “we’ve established one thing firmly.”
“What’s that?” Alan says.
“Jack Jr. and his buddy? They’re real assholes.”
There is a brief silence, and then everyone is laughing. Everyone except for James. Some of the tension leaves the room.
Some of it.
“Listen up,” I say. “Round one goes to them, hands down. No question. But they’ve made a big mistake. They wanted us to want to get them, and they’ve gotten their wish. They have no idea what that means.” I pause, gauging their reaction. “They think they’re ahead of us. What else is new? They always think that. But we have fingerprints on one of them, and we know that there are two of them. We’re closing the gap. Okay?” Nods. “Good. So let’s get down to business. Tell me again what Dr. Child said about the profile on our killers, Callie, I wasn’t paying attention.”