But the way she had been yesterday in those blood-spattered woods. Observant. Engaged. Her mind crackling with energy. She needed that and he needed her. So once again into the killing fields. Lace up your boots, DeMarco. Keep a sharp eye out. Assume the point. And for God’s sake, man, keep her safe this time. Whatever it takes, soldier, you best remember this: you are nothing without her. So you damn well better keep her safe.
Twelve
Their evening was quiet and unhurried on the surface, the sky darkening beyond the windows. Dire Straits’ “Telegraph Road” played in the living room, sending its eerie whistle out to the kitchen where Jayme and DeMarco laid out the ingredients for an early dinner. Beneath the surface, his mind was full of chatter, with fragments of worry tumbling one over another, sounding like the old transistor radio he had as a boy and whose dial he would slowly turn at night in an attempt to pick up a ball game, only to get snatches of dialogue and static, music and silence.
He wondered if Harvey, spending the night at Dr. Lisa’s clinic, had been neutered yet, and if so how he was handling the pain. And every time DeMarco looked at Jayme, he thought about their baby too, that tiny sesame seed Jayme felt certain was a girl. And that, of course, made him think of Ryan Jr., which brought back the abiding ache like a ball of hot steel embedded in his chest.
With an effort he forced himself to consider the unidentified bodies incinerated in the woods. Had they been conscious when the gasoline was poured over them? Did they watch the match being struck? It was too easy to think of them only as indistinguishable bodies and not as living and feeling human beings. Probably females, Loughner had said. A glance at Jayme standing at the stove now with her back to him made him wince.
And with that reaction he remembered the text he had received earlier from Ben Brinker but had not yet answered. How goes it, my friend? How is our brave girl doing? The nastiness Brinker faced daily as sheriff of a county with one of the highest crime rates in the country was unrelenting, yet he always found the time to check in with DeMarco.
DeMarco pulled the phone from his pocket and responded: Doing well, brother. Day by day. Any news on the hunt?
He silenced the phone and laid it screen up on the table, then returned to building a salad in a large glass bowl. He placed the pickled beets and three pepperoncini on only one side of the salad so that the juice would not bleed onto Jayme’s greens. Then cut thin slices from a seedless cucumber and placed them symmetrically atop the salad. The phone’s screen lit up just as he was about to reach for the cherry tomatoes. Last sighting in Ottawa on convenience store surveillance cam. Appears to be moving east. All precautions taken. More when I get it. Good job at hearing. Let’s do dinner soon. Vee sends love to all.
DeMarco responded with a smiley face. Then pocketed the phone again.
So Khatri was coming their way. It made no sense that he would be so careless as to get caught on surveillance camera time after time; he was too smart for that. Ben never suggested that Khatri wanted them to know he was coming back, but it was obvious to DeMarco.
And that knowledge always brought him right back to Jayme—Jayme looking so docile and imperturbable, inviolate in her black yoga pants and butter-yellow T-shirt, her bare feet on the kitchen floor, her pink-painted toenails. She was even tapping one heel in rhythm to Dire Straits’ “Calling Elvis,” her shoulders and butt rocking back and forth as she filled two long buns from a cast iron skillet—shredded chicken, sautéed onions and peppers. Then she sprinkled shredded pepper jack cheese over the meat.
DeMarco placed six cherry tomatoes atop the salad, looked down at them and blinked, and wanted to weep from the ache of loving her.
“Is it too cold to eat outside?” she asked.
He swallowed the thickness in his throat. “We can always come back inside if it is. I’ll grab you a hoodie and some socks.”
They sat on the edge of the back porch, their feet on the first step, plates balanced on their knees. “It’s good,” he said.
“I was afraid I got too much paprika on it.”
“It’s perfect.”
Everything was perfect. Everything except for the dog with no name in a strange room and crate and maybe by now with no testicles. Everything except for three more people dead, identities unknown. Everything except for a psychopath last seen smiling at a video camera in a convenience store in Ottawa and probably headed their way. Everything except for a little unborn girl lost to that psychopath’s blade, and a little boy lost to DeMarco’s inattention.
Yes, everything was perfect. Except for those few things and a few billion more, all was right with the world.
Thirteen
She finished the rest of her tea, set the empty glass beside the empty plate, looked out across the yard for a moment, then leaned into him. The sky was a deep gray along the horizon. She thought she could hear something labored in DeMarco’s breathing. Could feel something portentous out there in the far dimness, something waiting. But waiting for what?
“I’m missing the mutt already,” she said.
“Me too.”
“I keep thinking how funny it is that we found him that way. One minute we’re petless, two minutes later we have a dog.”
“Right out of left field,” he said.
She smiled but felt the fraudulence of her expression, and hoped DeMarco would not notice it. Suddenly she felt pummeled by things that had hit them right out of left field. She said, “I had a long email from my mother today.”
“How is she doing?”
“Still fretting about being in Australia when I was in the hospital.”
“That’s what good parents do. They fret.”
“I just wish she would quit apologizing for it. It’s not good for either of us.”
It was always with her, and she knew it always would be. It. The incident. The loss. Ever present, ever clear. And now she finally understood Ryan’s loss too. Now she felt it. Her big, strong, silently grieving man. What would she do without him?
A sudden chill raced up her back. She said, “I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
He pulled away just far enough to look at her. “What brought that up?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking. I mean…there are things in my past I’m not particularly proud of.”
“We all have them.”
“I don’t like keeping them from you.”
“I don’t need to hear them.”
“But I feel like I need to tell you.”
“That feeling is incorrect,” he said.
“But it’s like they say in group. It’s good to express things. It’s good to get stuff out.”
He thought for a moment before responding. “I agree with the expression part. But when you express something dark to another person, a person you care about, isn’t it sort of like passing some of that darkness on to them? And I don’t want you carrying around any of my darkness.”
“In other words, you don’t want to hear mine because you don’t want to tell me yours.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, “there is nothing to be gained by giving past sins new life.”
“What if I just feel like I have to get them out? Like I’m being dishonest with you if I don’t?”
He sat motionless for fifteen seconds. Then said, “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” He gathered up the plates and glasses and went inside.
She heard the water running in the sink, knew he was quickly washing the dishes, using that time to think. Then the water stopped. No sounds for half a minute. What was he doing in there?
He returned carrying two of the pocket notebooks they used for field notes when working a case, two pens, and the metal trash can she had placed under the sink when she bought a new one with a lid. He handed her a pen and notebook, set the trash can on the ground between their feet, and sat.
“Write it al
l down,” he told her. “Every secret you want to get rid of. Use a separate page for each one. I’ll do the same.”
Were they going to read them to each other? Or trade notebooks and read them silently? That was just like him, wasn’t it?
She wrote quickly, squinting in the dimming light. When she laid her pen aside, he said, “You’re done already?”
“There are really only two things. I’ve told you everything else already.”
He nodded. Kept writing.
Finished, he tore each of the small sheets free, one at a time. Folded them once and tossed them into the trash can. She followed suit with both of her pages.
DeMarco leaned to the side and reached into a pocket. “What you really want is forgiveness,” he told her. “So do I. And this is how we forgive each other.”
Now she understood. “And maybe ourselves too?”
He nodded. Opened the book of matches he had taken from his pocket. Tore one match free and handed the book to her.
She tore a match free and turned to him. He tapped the tip of his match to hers and said, “Ladies first.”
She struck her match, lowered it quickly to the trash can, touched the flame to one of the papers, dropped the match inside when the paper caught fire. He took the book from her and did the same.
Soon the fire grew, and for just a few moments the flame flared above the metal rim. Then it sank low. A white smoke drifted up to them. Jayme leaned close to the smoke, drew her hands through it and rubbed it over her face. Then, smiling, feeling a little bit silly but also that the impromptu ritual was justified, she drew her hands though the smoke again and rubbed them over DeMarco’s face. They watched the smoke being drawn up into the sky. Watched until there was nothing left in the trash can but ashes.
He dipped a finger into the ashes, dabbed the ash on her forehead, and said, “I forgive you everything.”
She dipped her finger in, traced a small cross on his forehead. “I forgive you everything.”
When she looked at him smiling, his eyes as wet as hers, he told her, “We’re all clean now, love. We’re all washed clean.”
She hoped he was right and that it was as easy as that to get clean again, and that the dog would have an easy night, and that the feeling would soon pass of a portentous something like an enormous black shark undulating toward her through its infinite sea of darkness.
Fourteen
Early the next morning, DeMarco took the call from Trooper Boyd while she was in the shower. Then he finished dressing, olive-green cargo pants, the thick black socks he liked for their comfort and warmth, a white Oxford shirt. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, until she came out naked but for the towel wrapped around her hair.
“Who was that on the phone?” she asked.
“Boyd,” he said.
“Good news or bad?”
He looked away from her. “I can’t think straight when you’re standing there like that.”
“Like what?” she asked, and grinned at his discomfort.
“See you downstairs,” he told her, and stood.
She laughed. “Discipline, DeMarco. Self-discipline.”
“Overrated,” he answered as he went out the door.
* * *
“So what’s the news?” she asked, set down her coffee mug and reached for the banana.
He had made oatmeal for both of them, had mixed cinnamon, chopped dates, dried cranberries and raisins with the oatmeal, then laid a banana beside each bowl. While she sliced her banana, poured milk into the bowl, and ate her oatmeal, he filled her in on Trooper Boyd’s report.
All VIN numbers had been removed from the torched Santa Fe, the dash plate on the bulkhead pried off, the sticker on the passenger doorpost scraped away, the number on the engine block chiseled out.
No identifying fragments of jewelry or clothing could be found among the remains in the back seat, but both skulls were intact, as well as the teeth. Examination of the dentition and recovered DNA indicated that both victims were female, one Asian, one Caucasian. Morphological changes in the teeth suggested that the women were between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. The white woman had been a heavy smoker, the Asian ground her teeth. Local dentists were being provided X-rays of all victims’ teeth for comparison with their patients’ records.
The male victim’s fingerprints and DNA did not show up in any of the searches, which meant either no previous arrests, no past employment that would have required FBI clearance, or no arrests logged into the NCIC. His tattoos were all too generic to be of any value. One scar, three inches long, on his upper right bicep, had probably been inflicted by a jackknife. Another scar, only a half inch in length but deep enough to nick a rib, on his left side. Three toes on his right foot showed signs of old breaks, as did the pinky of his right hand. Knuckles on both hands heavily scarred. Additional scars on forehead and scalp. Blood and hair follicle analysis tested positive for both cocaine and cannabis, but registered strongest for the sedative chloral hydrate.
“Interesting,” Jayme said. “We don’t see much of chloral hydrate these days.”
“It’s easier to get in Canada and the UK.”
“So we have a user, weed and coke, to whom somebody slipped a mickey.”
“He’s got the scars of a street fighter. The somebody didn’t want to go one-on-one with him.”
“And that,” she said, “is all we know?”
“So far. How do you like the oatmeal?” He had made it thick, so that the layer of milk lay atop it, and the oatmeal was spooned up in chunks.
“I like it a lot. Why didn’t you ever make this before?”
“Just thought of it this morning. The dried fruit makes it sweet without any sugar, especially the dates.”
“So this is the first time you’ve had it this way?”
He shook his head no. “A long time ago I took a little camping trip by myself. Just grabbed everything from the cupboard that wouldn’t spoil fast. Next morning I made some oatmeal, threw all the dried fruit in, poured in a little canned milk mixed with water, and loved it. It reminds me of my mother’s bread pudding.”
Camping trip? she wondered. How long ago? And why grabbed what he needed for the trip? It sounded as if he had been in a hurry to get away from something or someone. From his wife? Parent? Memories? God, how she wished she could see into that head of his, could turn on the faucet to his brain and let all the secrets spill out.
She said, “Isn’t bread pudding usually creamier than this?”
“Not the way she made it. She wasn’t much of a cook.”
“Well, you are, babe. This is a healthy, stick-to-the-ribs breakfast. So how are we going to put it to use?”
“Finish up,” he told her. “And put on your walking shoes.”
Fifteen
It was after ten when DeMarco finally stepped out into the yard and saw that the sky was high and clear and cobalt blue, with only two slender streaks of white cirrus clouds above, as if a painter had used the blue canvas to clean his brush. The air was sweet and dry and the temperature more typical of May than October. With a sudden regret he realized that he had missed the morning altogether. He had been poring over property maps of Otter Creek Township, noting homes and farms and roads, then made two copies of the map and two of the satellite photo of the township, had folded them in half and slipped the copies in a canvas satchel along with bottles of water and PowerBars. But now the best part of the morning was gone and he could never get it back.
Long ago he had told himself that he would never miss the first light of morning, always the finest part of the day, and that he would always spend at least a couple of minutes outside no matter the weather, feeling and smelling and being a part of each day’s birth. But he had missed this one and several others and he could never get them back.
Jayme locked th
e rear door and came up behind him, a tall insulated plastic cup full of coffee in each hand. “What’s up?” she said.
“Beautiful morning. Except that it’s almost gone.”
“There’s like ninety minutes of it left.”
“Not the same,” he said.
“Not the same as what?”
He looked at the sky a moment longer. Filled his lungs with another breath. Then turned to her and smiled and said, “Giddyup.”
* * *
In the conference room at the Troop D station house a tenth of a mile from Interstate 79, they met with Boyd and one of the new recruits, Daniella Flores. She was twenty-four years old, stood a ramrod straight five five in her shiny boots, wore her dark hair in a short shag cut that ended in line with her chin. Her large eyes were a clear, deep brown, and, when regarding DeMarco, seldom blinked.
Jayme took one look at her and remembered her own fears as a new recruit, the raw disbelief of being granted the uniform, the always alert yet nervous determination to succeed. She also recognized the look with which the younger woman regarded DeMarco.
“You look familiar,” he said to Flores. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Farrell, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I’m a civilian now.”
“Yes, sir.”
And then he remembered. “That diner on Route 19. You used to work there.”
“The Belmont. Yes, sir. I went to the same school as Meghan Fletcher, though I didn’t know her personally. She was several years older than me. I worked with her mother at the diner, though.”
In a rush it came back to him. A nineteen-year-old girl, her throat slit in her own bed. So long ago. So much loneliness then.
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