by Peggy Dulle
Matthew nodded and sat down next to me.
“How are you, Connie?”
“I'm okay,” I put my hand on his leg.
“Does this mean William's back too?”
“Yes.”
“Good, I need him to look at a case for me.” He patted my hand and then stood. “I'll get dinner started.”
Matthew had always done the cooking at our house, so I went into the kitchen after him. “Can I help?”
“Sure.” He took a package of chicken and a bag of carrots out of the refrigerator. “I'm going to grill some chicken. How about you wash these baby carrots and put them into the steamer?”
It felt like I had never left. That nothing had ever happened to me or us. As if the last four months hadn't been real. This was what I wanted, wasn't it?
During dinner we discussed his case, just like we had always done.
“I could use your insight in a case I'm working on, Connie.”
“Of course. What's the case?”
“I've got a murdered witness who was in protective custody.” He handed me the plate of grilled chicken.
I put some chicken on my plate. “Isn't that the U. S. Marshal's job?”
“Usually, but they think they've got a leak in their operation. It's the third witness they've lost in four months.”
“Tell me about it,” I said as I ate the dinner we had cooked together.
And he did. I made suggestions, he jotted them down in a file he had at the dinner table with us.
When the meal was finished, Matthew gathered up his files and stood. “I have some reports to go over, Connie. I know you've had a long and arduous trip. Go to bed if you're tired.”
And he was gone. As I cleaned up the kitchen, I practiced taking deep calming breaths to tap down the urge to throw a dish against a wall. Stay calm, be rational. The death of protected witnesses is important. Matthew just needs some time to finish his report. When the kitchen was spotless, I went into our bedroom, put on his favorite teal negligee, and waited for him.
Three hours later, I fell asleep. In the morning there was a note on the kitchen counter.
“Gone to work. See you tonight.”
I yearned to feel some of the warmth Matthew and I used to share, beyond the discussion of the cases we worked, and to get back my best friend and lover.
Maybe time was all we needed, I told myself. But a month later, nothing had changed. He went to work, I stayed home, and he slept in the guest room rather than with me.
Whenever I brought up us, or the situation, he said, “It's all in the past, Connie. Let's forget it.”
The doctor wouldn't release me to go back to work, so I didn't have anything to do. I exercised three times a day, watched a few soap operas, shopped, and sat at home waiting for my husband to be my husband. It never happened.
As the weeks crawled on, I felt myself falling apart. I needed someone to talk to about what was happening in my marriage. I asked Matthew if he would go to a marriage counselor with me.
“We don't have a problem, Connie,” he told me. “It just will take some time to get back into our old routine.”
“We're in our old routine. We cook dinner together, we discuss cases, I clean up, and you work in your office.”
“See? We're fine.” He smiled and went into his office.
After a couple of weeks, I put on my sexiest nightgown and waited on the living room couch.
When Matthew came through the door, he raised his eyebrows. “Connie?”
I walked over and stood in front of him, then let the nightgown fall to the floor.
He bent over and slid it back on my body.
I took his hands. “Matthew?”
“I just can't, Connie.” His eyes filled with tears.
“I don't understand. I love you. I want to be with you.”
“I can't,” he muttered.
“Why not?”
He reached out to touch me, but his hand stopped a few inches from the scar that ran down my chest. He pulled his hand back and shook his head. “He . . . I can't!” He turned and stormed out of the house.
I dropped onto the couch and wept.
Matthew didn't return for three days.
I went to the counselor by myself and after a few weeks of sessions, I finally figured out what was wrong. Matthew couldn't get past the fact that the Jackal had raped me, mutilated my body and killed our child. Matthew knew about the baby even before I did since Dr. Kuntz gave him an entire account of my ordeal the morning after I was found. Matthew couldn't touch me because the Jackal had. And on some level he blamed me. The counselor made me realize that the person attacked is not the only victim of a rape.
One night I confronted him. When he came in the door, I pointed to the couch. “Sit down. I need to talk to you.”
He immediately went over and sat down. “What?”
“My therapist says you can't make love to me because of what happened to me and to our baby.”
Matthew's eyes widened, then softened. He lowered his head.
I sat next to him and took his hands. “I don't know how to help you with this. I can't change what happened to me or our child. You have to love me enough to get over this. Do you love me that much, Matthew?”
He shook his head. “I don't know, Connie. Maybe I need more time.”
“It's been six months since I was attacked. How much more time do you need?” My voice elevated with each word. I couldn't control the anger I was feeling.
“I don't know.”
“What about going to counseling?”
“No! I'm fine!” He shouted. His face turned an ugly mottled red.
“This is not fine. This is not a marriage,” I screamed back.
“It's as good as it can be.” He stood, went into his office, and slammed the door.
Cheezy jumped in my lap which rocked the swing and brought me back to the present. She always seemed to know when I slipped back into the past. Tears fell down my cheeks, blurring my vision of the blue-gray mountains, and I wiped them off with the back of my hand. It seemed like all I did these days was shed tears for things that I had lost. Dad. Matthew. My marriage. My career. William. The baby. And some days, my sanity.
As I stroked Cheezy's soft, clean fur, I rehashed the Jackal investigation in my mind. Five female victims had been chosen at random from different parking lots in a town. Since we couldn't watch every lot, we needed to find the Jackal's dump site in order to catch him. It always bothered me that we had to wait for someone to be taken, but the body dump site was the only constant in the Jackal's routine.
William's voice echoed in my head. “Once you find it, you wait for him to come to you, Constance. It takes his control away and transfers it to you!”
He had been right, but they hadn't found the dump site soon enough, not for me. But William pulled me from that God-awful hole in the ground and then provided the rock that I anchored my emotional stability to for the next several months.
Throughout the entire time I was home in D.C. after leaving Texas and the hospitals behind, I didn't see much of William. He had another apartment in D.C. but he called every Friday to check on me.
“How's it going, Constance?”
“I'm fine,” I said, no matter how or what I felt at the time.
“Sure, you are,” he chuckled. “When are you coming back to work?”
“Miss me?”
“You know I do.”
A few times we met for coffee after our Friday talks. He was so easy to talk to. I told him everything that was going on - or not going on -- in my marriage. He told me about his cases and constantly asked for my opinion.
Every conversation we had, whether by phone or in person, ended with the same question. “Are you ready for a board game, Constance?” When we were together, he would gently hold my hand as he asked. His eyes would glisten and his face would brighten with a smile that could melt an iceberg.
“No,” I would say.
He would l
augh and then say goodbye.
Every day I paced around my house with nothing to do but exercise, watch television, and brood. How could Matthew do this to me? He didn't love me enough to get over what happened to me? I was over it. How could he keep punishing me for something I had absolutely no control over?
A month later, Matthew had to go out of town for a week and I stayed home - alone. As I wandered around my house going stir-crazy, I got madder with each step. I had nothing to do. The stupid doctors wouldn't let me go back to work. They said being a field agent was too stressful and would probably bring on more panic attacks. And Matthew agreed with them. What asses they all were!
On the second day of being alone, my entire body was on fire. Nobody wanted me - not as an agent or a wife! I was jittery, angry and empty. And that emptiness was consuming my entire soul. I needed to be wanted, desired as someone valuable.
I picked up the phone. “I need a board game.”
“Come to me.”
“I'm on my way.” I flung my jacket over my shoulder and slammed the door so hard that the front windows vibrated.
Fifteen minutes later, I stood at William's door. He opened it before I could knock. He held out his hand, I took it, and stepped inside.
He slid his hands around my waist. “You've been working out, Constance.”
“What else was there to do?”
“I can think of so many other things.” He pulled me closer and gently brushed his lips against my neck before finding my lips.
The kiss sent a jolt through my body stronger than if I had been struck by lightning. A warm, tingling sensation spread through me that I hadn't felt in almost seven months. I wanted, no, I needed, to get lost in that feeling.
But suddenly my mind went to Matthew. This wasn't right. Had I given Matthew enough time to heal? If not, how much more time would it take? I put my hand on William's chest. “Wait, maybe this isn't a good idea.”
He lifted his head and our eyes locked. There was a fire in his that matched my own need and desire.
“God, I want you,” William murmured into my ear.
Those words touched deep into my very soul. “Okay, but no commitments, no strings, and when it's over, we walk away and don't look back.”
“Don't think, Constance,” he whispered. Then he kissed me gently on the lips, “Come alive again.”
I reached up, brought his lips back to mine, and surrendered to the yearning I felt deep in my core. The kiss was long and luscious. Skyrockets exploded in my body.
William was slow and gentle. When I tried to cover up my scar, he moved my hands and kissed every inch of it.
I can still remember how it felt after that first time. We lay in bed together, legs intertwined; William caressed my arm and smiled.
“What?” I'd asked.
“I've waited so long to hold you and it was so much more intense and exciting than I ever imagined it would be. You are truly an amazing woman, Constance.”
I reached over and stroked the side of his face. “You aren't so bad yourself, William.”
His eyes glistened, my heart soared and we did it all over again.
That started our affair. Each day Matthew would go off to work and I would go to William's.
Two weeks later, the doctors finally released me to go back to work. Having worked out every day for the last six months, I was in the best shape I had been in years. My career was back on track and I had a man who made me feel alive and desired.
Every time I started to feel guilty about my affair, I tried to get Matthew to make love to me. He always rejected me and I would go back to William. In my mind, I made it Matthew's choice, even though I never spoke the words.
William's career was also going well. He was considered the best profiler in the entire bureau and often jetted off to different locations to help in their investigations. Several times I asked for him to be assigned to my cases. People thought I asked for him because we became good friends after my ordeal with the Jackal. We used work as an opportunity to spend more time to explore each other's needs and desires.
I had learned to control most of the panic attacks. If I was in a room and all the doors were shut, I was still prone to them, especially if a strange man was also in the room. But as long as I kept the door open, a mode of escape, I could manage my body's reaction. If someone sneaked behind me and startled me, I couldn't control the attacks, but as long as I could see someone coming, I was fine. And if William was with me, I never had an attack, no matter the situation. He was my anchor, both emotionally and physically.
As dusk fell around me and the mountains faded into gloom, I realized that had been another lifetime ago. Now Matthew and the Jackal dragged me back to it.
When I climbed into bed around two in the morning, I slept fitfully. Too many old memories crept into my attempts at sleep - the recollection of gagging, my affair with William, and the destruction of my marriage. And the one time in my life when I had given up.
The Jackal had sent me a note. It couldn't be good news.
Chapter 7
In the morning, the skies were clear and the rain so evident in the last few days was pushed northward. I went directly to the station. Bob sat at his desk, his hair stuck up bush-like, as usual, and I motioned him to follow me into my office. I sat behind my desk as Bob came in.
“Shut the door, Bob, and sit down.”
“What's up, Chief?” He frowned.
“I want you to make calls to all of the families in the area with more than an acre of land. See if they have any gravesites on their property and if any of them have been displaced because of the floods.”
“Okay.” He glanced at the door and whispered, “So why's the door closed?”
“The FBI is sending an agent with a letter.”
“About what?”
“It's an old case I worked on. The perp has sent me a note.”
“What's in the note?”
“I don't know. The Feds are afraid to open it because the killer has threatened to kill more people if they do.”
“Wow!” Bob exhaled loudly. “Being a Fed must be a very exciting job.”
“Sometimes way too exciting.”
Bob stood. “I'll talk to the families and let the front desk know that you're expecting a guest.”
“Don't tell them who or why.”
“I won't, but you know the Fed will flip his badge as soon as he walks through our front door.”
“Yeah, that's their style. Tell the front desk an FBI agent will be here because of an old case I worked on.”
“That's believable, since it's the truth.”
“Thanks.”
He started to leave, but turned and looked at me. His face was shrouded with concern. “Do you want me to come in with him? You don't look so good.”
“No, I'm okay. Besides, having you around has never stopped my panic attacks before.”
“I know. But if it's a stranger, then . . .,”
I put up my hand. “I'll deal with it.”
Before Bob left, he turned back and grinned at me, “Do you want me to stop by and hassle the local delinquents?”
“Oh, no. Let me do that myself.” I smiled and Bob waved as he left my office.
While waiting for the Feds, I glanced at my dad's picture on the wall.
“Well, Dad, you made me chief. Now I'm dealing with bones in your town and waiting for a letter from a serial killer. This would be funny if you were here to share it with.”
An hour later, I heard a single knock. I stood, took a deep breath to settle myself, and opened it. John Carpenter, in his black suit, white tailored shirt, black tie, FBI-issued briefcase, and tentative smile, stood there.
“Hello, John.” I extended my hand.
He shook it. “It's nice to see you, Connie.”
“Thanks. I wish it were better circumstances.”
“Me too.” He opened the briefcase, took out an envelope from an evidence bag, and showed it to me.
&nbs
p; On the outside was written:
To be opened by Agent Connie Davenport.
If opened by another, the death toll goes to six.
“This has been tested for fingerprints and fibers, right?”
“We haven't forgotten how to do our job since you left, Connie.” John smiled and handed me a pair of gloves.
“I know, I just wanted to be sure.” I put on the gloves, slid a letter opener into the envelope, and sliced through the top. Inside was a single folded sheet of paper. Slowly I opened it and read just five little words.
I miss you chasing me.
The words echoed through my mind and my stomach lurched. Things that are missed are sought after until they are returned. How long before I would be chasing him again?
I handed the note to John. He turned it over in his hands, read it, and said, “This just means there will be more notes.”
“I know.”
He replaced the note and envelope in the evidence bag and returned them to his briefcase. He leaned back in his chair.
“How are you, Connie?”
“I'm fine, John.”
“No more panic attacks?”
“A few, but they're not as intense and don't come very often.”
“Only when you meet someone new?”
“Sometimes, but I'm able to control them. Is that why Matthew sent you?”
“Yes. He didn't know if you were still having the attacks and feared that a note from the Jackal might bring them back. He didn't want to send a total stranger.”
“That was nice of him,” I said. My stomach tightened into a hard knot. I could think of a million questions I wanted to ask about Matthew and William. But they weren't interested in me, were they? And I didn't want to open the flood gate of emotions. Stick to the job!
“Matthew's doing well. I think he's going to be appointed Deputy Director next year.”
“Nobody deserves it more.”
“He works hard.”
“He always did.”
“Want to know about William?”
“Not especially. That part of my life is over.”