“What’s wrong with you today, Zaniel?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I asked, didn’t I?” She crossed her legs, one knee beginning to jiggle. It was one of her signs that she was really pissed, and for once I didn’t seem to care. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
“Fine, I had to leave a crime scene . . .”
“Oh, your job is more important than saving our marriage, is that it?” And just like that we were back to old arguments like the tracks on a roller coaster where the cars can’t get off the ride and just keep going round and round.
“You didn’t even let me answer the question,” I said.
“You answered, you’re all about the job.”
“Actually, Reggie, you didn’t let him answer you. Go ahead, Zaniel, finish your thought,” Dr. Martin said.
“It isn’t leaving work to come here that’s making it hard for me to concentrate, Reggie. It’s the kind of crime scene I had to leave to . . . experience. It was sort of awful and people got hurt, and now I’m supposed to sit here and talk about our marriage.”
“Because the people who got hurt are more important to you than our marriage,” she said, as if I’d made her point for her.
I was suddenly angry, and I let myself be angry at her for once. “I didn’t save everyone today, Reggie. A young woman who begged me to save her is getting a rape kit done at the hospital, because I couldn’t get to her in time. I couldn’t save her from that.” The anger in her eyes softened, and it wasn’t enough. “Did you notice the bandages on me, or did you just not care that I got hurt today?”
“You could do other jobs, Zaniel.”
I shook my head and held my hands up. “So instead of asking me how hurt I am, or what happened, you go straight to the fact that you hate me being a cop, and why can’t I go sell insurance for your brother, or maybe go to college, as if that will guarantee me a better job.”
“Do you want Reggie to ask about your injuries?” Dr. Martin asked.
“I think I need to know that she cares that I got hurt.”
“Do you care about that, Reggie?” the doctor asked, and looked at my wife.
“Of course I do.” She sounded more angry than concerned.
“Then ask Zaniel about his day. How he got hurt.”
“He didn’t ask me about mine.”
I stood up and looked down at her. “If you had come in here with your arm wrapped up in a medical dressing, I’d have asked you what happened.”
Her eyes narrowed and she looked at my stomach. “Are those more bandages under your shirt?” She reached out toward me; it was the first time she’d reached for me in months. I thought about stepping out of reach, but I thought about it too long and her fingers found the rips in my shirt and the bandages underneath. When she pushed her fingers through the rips and brushed some bare skin between bandages I had to step back or shudder from just that light touch. My body reacted to her being that close, and I hoped she didn’t notice. I didn’t want her to know that her fingers barely brushing my stomach had that much effect on me. Heaven help me, I still wanted her, but I wasn’t sure about being in love anymore, and that helped more than a cold shower.
“I’ve seen your shirt after a knife went through; that wasn’t knives, was it?”
“No,” I said.
“Claws, Jesus, Zaniel, what clawed you up like that?”
I shook my head. “Demon.”
“Demons aren’t that solid.”
“It’s been a hell of a day,” I said.
She looked up at me with fear raw on her face, fear for my safety. She’d started using her anger to mask how scared she was every time I left for work.
“You could die.”
“Everyone can die,” I said.
She stood up and in the high-heeled boots, which she knew I loved to see her in, she was six feet at least, not that much shorter than me. I’d liked that she was tall and still loved wearing heels, liked that she hadn’t tried to hide her height like so many tall women do.
“You’d leave Connery without a father.”
“We’ve had this fight before, Reggie. Now I say that statistically driving a car is more dangerous than my job, or working as an overnight clerk at a 7-Eleven, and you say—”
“The clerk doesn’t chase monsters or fight demons every day.”
“I go days without chasing anything, and demons are rare even on my job.”
“Damn it, Zaniel, stop doing that!”
“Doing what?”
“Missing my point.”
“Your point is that you hate my job, because it scares you, because you think I’m more at risk than on most other jobs.”
“Yes, yes, that is my point.”
“You’re a teacher in a public school, Reggie; you’ve taken knives off of students, and there was a gun scare two months ago.”
“There was a rumor two months ago that a student might bring a gun to school, but it was another student trying to get someone in trouble.”
“I’m just saying that your job is dangerous, too, but I don’t ask you to quit.”
“If you asked me to give it up, I would.”
“Really? And what would you do?”
“I’d stay home with Connery.”
I smiled, and it was a mistake.
“Why is that funny?” She half yelled it.
“You’d be climbing the walls in a month being a stay-at-home mom.”
“How do you know that? If you made more money maybe, we could have tried it.”
“I’m making pretty good money, especially for a cop.”
“Not enough for me to quit my job.”
“You don’t make enough for me to quit my job and stay at home with Connery either.”
“You’ve never said you wanted to do that before.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I would? I’d love to see him every day. I miss dropping him off at preschool. Maybe being a stay-at-home dad would be awesome.”
She studied my face, not angry anymore, but thinking, trying to decide if I was serious. She wasn’t the only one, but suddenly the thought of tucking my kid in at night and being there when he woke up, taking him to preschool, even cooking meals for all of us while Reggie went to work sounded . . . possible.
“You never said that you wanted to do that before,” she said.
“I make more money than you do; if we can’t afford to make it on just my salary, there’s no way for us to make it on just yours.” I shrugged, and then wished I hadn’t because it hurt. “If something isn’t possible, what good does it do to talk about it?”
“I like knowing that you’d try to be the stay-at-home parent. I love knowing that you’d want to spend all day with our son.” She started to touch my bandaged arm and then switched her hand to my other arm. I tried to put my hand over hers, but that hurt the scratched arm too much. I had to stop the movement halfway and take a deep breath not to say ouch, or something even less manly.
She slid her hand down my arm and took my hand in hers for the first time in six months, maybe longer. Her hand was like the rest of her, bigger, still slender and feminine, but her hand held mine easily. She had never made me feel like I couldn’t shake her hand without overwhelming her.
She held my hand and smiled up at me. My heart did a flip-flop, and just like that I felt hopeful and realized that I still loved her, and that with a little encouragement I could be in love with her again. Part of me was happy and part of me thought I was a damn fool.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
We made plans to have dinner together, with Dr. Martin acting like a referee as we negotiated all the details. I’d have called it a date, but Reggie called it just having dinner, so I didn’t say the D-word. But the excited, bubbly feeling I had in my stomach and chest felt like more than “just dinner.” I felt happy and stupid for feeling that way, but it’s how I felt. I tried to enjoy the feelings without thinking too hard about how I’d feel if the dinner was a disaste
r, or if Reggie backed out on it altogether. I pushed the thought away and tried to hold on to the happy excitement.
I got into my car and texted Charleston and Lila almost the same message: “Done with appointment. Do you need me at the house?” to her, and to him, “Done with appointment. Do you need me at the college?” Then I hesitated because I didn’t know where to drive. I’d give them five minutes, then call. Before the separation I’d have been hoping that they didn’t need me and I could go home. Now the last thing I wanted to do was go home to the tiny apartment I’d gotten after I moved out of the home that Reggie and I had made together. I’d let her stay in the house with the kiddo because what else could I do? I was supposed to take care of them; making them move out of the house didn’t feel like I’d be doing that, so Reggie and Connery stayed in the house and I found a tiny, reasonable apartment in El Segundo where the sound of airplanes going overhead almost never stopped. But there was a pool, and a big sycamore tree outside the window where a mockingbird sang all night. It almost drowned out the airplanes. Connery went back home to Reggie full of the pool and the landlady’s pug puppies. He thought sleeping in the big bed with me was an adventure. I’d put him on the couch one weekend, but he’d gotten up in the middle of the night and tried to make popcorn. He’d set off the smoke alarm, so he went in the bedroom and I didn’t fit on the couch. I barely fit in the queen-sized bed.
The thought of going back to the apartment drained away the excitement and the last adrenaline from the emergency at the hospital. I wanted to go home, and the apartment would never be that. I wanted to go home with my wife and be there when Connery got home from preschool, but I couldn’t have that today. There was a dinner planned, almost a date; we’d take it slow, because Reggie didn’t want to take it fast. I took a deep breath and squeezed my hands around the steering wheel until my scratched arm protested as if some of the nail marks had gone into the muscle. I hadn’t had stitches because the skin had peeled away underneath her nails; you can’t stitch a scrape, just bandage it and wait for it to heal.
I could chase after Reggie like an unwanted dog she’d dropped off at a shelter. I couldn’t face the thought of going to the tiny apartment, so what did that leave? Exercise; one of the reasons I was in the best shape of my life was that it was one thing I could do that I could control. I could always lift more weights, or run one more mile, or . . . but I was too hurt to hit the gym, or even run. You use your upper body a lot more than you think when you run. So, what next? What would I do if Charleston told me he didn’t need me and to go home, rest, and heal?
I wanted to go home and finish working on one of the dozen projects around the house that had gone on hold when I left. Again, I couldn’t do that unless Reggie allowed it, and that hurt more than any wound. I wanted to go home, and I couldn’t because it wasn’t home anymore. We had a dinner planned, I told myself again, but that pessimistic part of me that had been growing louder over the six-month separation was in my head now, telling me that I should figure out what home meant without Reggie. What would home mean if it was just me and Connery half the time and me alone the rest of the time? The thought made me want to put my head down on the steering wheel and weep. Where could I go? What could I do to keep the dark thoughts from eating up all the good ones? The only answer was work; I could go back to work, I could try to figure out why everything was different with this demon possession, if that was even the correct term for it. I could find the demon that had helped Mark Cookson rape and kill our victim, Megan Borowski. I could find the demon that either had killed Mark Cookson or was using his body to commit crimes, because unlike angels, demons didn’t just go back to Hell and get lost in the Infernal fires. They stayed up here until they were forced back to Hell. Angels enjoyed Heaven and being closer to God; no demon I’d met wanted to return to Hell.
A car stopped behind my parked one. It was blocking me in, and it took me a second to realize it was Reggie. She turned the engine off and got out of the car. I had a moment of my heart lifting in pure happiness; maybe she was going to say the date could be tonight, or maybe she wanted me to come home even to do some tool-using chore. I’d take it. I’d be her handyman with no benefits if I could just be in the house when Connery came home from school. Then I saw the tension in her body, the way she held her lips, and knew underneath the big sunglasses her eyes would be black dark with anger.
What in Heaven’s name had I done to piss her off now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I got out of the car, so I was standing and facing her as she said, “Why are you waiting for me? I agreed to the dinner.”
“I’m not waiting for you,” I said.
“Were you going to follow me to see if I got a date or something?”
“It never occurred to me to follow you, Reggie.”
“You’re a cop, it’s part of what they teach you, isn’t it?”
“I suppose, but I’m just waiting—”
“For what; if you’re not waiting to see where I go next, what are you waiting for?” she demanded.
“To know if I join Charleston at the crime scene or go with another detective to get background on a suspect.”
That seemed to calm her down a little. “Oh, well, how long does that take to find out?”
My phone rang and saved us both from a conversation that I really didn’t understand at all. “Hey, Havoc, wait until you see what we found at the parents’ house!”
“Just tell me what it is,” I said, smiling because she sounded so excited.
“Who is that?” Reggie asked.
“It’s Detective Bridges.”
“Lila, you mean.” And she raised both her eyebrows up high enough that they showed above the sunglasses.
“Yes, Lila Bridges,” I said.
Lila said, “I thought your text said the therapy was over.”
“We’re in the parking lot,” I said.
“Is she asking where we are?” Reggie said.
“Yes,” I said.
“What?” Lila asked.
Reggie pantomimed me handing the phone to her, but I was too confused about what was happening, so I put it on speaker. “Lila, you’re on speaker, Reggie wanted to talk to you, I think.”
“Hi, Reggie,” Lila said, her voice neutral friendly.
“Hi, Lila.” Reggie’s tone was overly friendly and didn’t sound right. “Did he text you as soon as our couples therapy was over?”
“Her and Charleston,” I said.
“Havoc wanted to know if I was done talking to the parents.”
“Parents, what do you mean, parents?” Reggie asked.
“One of the people involved in the crime is a college kid,” I said, so that Lila didn’t have to figure out how much I’d shared or not shared with my wife.
“Victim or bad guy?” Reggie asked, but her anger seemed to be fading.
“Both,” I said.
“You mean this is all college-age kids?” she asked.
“Everyone’s young, or as old as they’re ever going to get,” Lila said, and she couldn’t hide the weariness in her voice. She might have been excited about the evidence she’d found, but something about the case was getting to her. It probably meant the parents had been nice. Sometimes it was harder when the family seems like good people, especially if you’re trying to tell them their son is suspected in the rape and murder of another college student.
“I didn’t know the victim or that everyone else involved was so young. I’m sorry you had to go see the parents.” And Reggie sounded more like herself.
“Never my favorite part of the job,” Lila said, and she sounded tired.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you with the parents, Lila,” I said.
“Hey, I took the new guy, MacGregor 2.0; he didn’t suck.”
“I’m glad he didn’t suck,” I said.
“I’m sorry that Zaniel couldn’t be there to help, too, Lila,” Reggie said.
“It’s okay, I just wish my wife h
ad been willing to do counseling with me like you and Havoc are doing.”
“Are you saying that Annie refused to go to couples counseling with you?” Reggie asked.
“Yeah, I offered, but she said there was nothing wrong with her, she didn’t need therapy, and if I thought I needed it I should go to therapy, but couples therapy without the other half of your couple seemed sort of pointless.” Lila sounded about as unhappy as I’d ever heard her.
“That sounds awful,” Reggie said, her voice soft. The glasses hid most of her face, but she seemed more affected than I’d expected by Lila sharing.
“It’s okay, Reggie, I just want someone else to get the happily-ever-after I keep missing.” She sounded genuinely sad, which I knew she was about her divorce, but she was letting Reggie hear it in her voice on purpose. I didn’t know why, but I knew it was on purpose, because Lila could control her voice in an interrogation or undercover better than I could.
“Well, I don’t think we’re ready for happily-ever-after, but the counseling sessions are helpful,” Reggie said.
“I thought it was promising,” I said, fighting to keep my voice as neutral as hers.
“Promising is good,” Lila said on the phone, then added, “I’m taking all the paraphernalia we gathered at the house back to the precinct. I want you to see it before it goes to forensics. Neither I nor the new guy is that versed on this kind of occult.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I said.
“Okay, and good to talk to you, Reggie.”
“Good to talk to you, too, Lila.”
“See you back at home base, Havoc,” Lila said, then hung up.
Reggie looked down at the ground and sighed. I was almost able to ignore how it made the sweater move as she did it. I made sure I was meeting her eyes behind the black lenses when she looked up.
A Terrible Fall of Angels Page 12