Syrah and Swingers

by Sandra Woffington

  Joy shook her head. “Not really. She apologized.”

  “Like that makes it better? How did you end up in her care? Was she your foster mother?”

  Here it came—the barrage of questions. Joy chewed a bit of frittata. She chewed slowly. She swallowed. “I don’t know. It’s a blurry mess. Studies show that between three and a half or four years of age, a child begins to gain substantial memory. I guess that’s why school starts four or five.” Joy sipped her wine, needing to keep her lips busy with anything other than talking more about it.

  “Geez. You had to deal with that, and then landed back home and figured out the poison case. You barely had time to rest up, and now you have a new case.” Steele squeezed Joy’s hand. “Eat up. It’s cinnamon apples and bed for you. You need your sleep. I’ll take off.”

  Great! Now she felt like she’d manipulated him to get sympathy. “Don’t go. I didn’t mean to make it sound like a big hairy ordeal.”

  Steele squeezed her hand. “Okay, but I’m warning you. This may be the end of our relationship.”

  Joy held her breath. She didn’t grasp his meaning.

  Steele pointed to his face. “This mug is not this pretty in the mornings.”

  Joy let out a peal of laughter that broke through her conflicted emotions. “I can’t wait to fall sleep so I can wake up and see that ugly mug.”

  The buzzer sounded on the oven. Joy jumped to her feet. “Ala mode?”

  “Heavy on the mode.”

  Steele helped clean up, and they retired to the bedroom. Steele crawled between the covers and waited.

  Joy slipped into a black silk and lace night slip, turned off the bathroom light, and crawled into bed next to Steele. She spooned against his chest, and he reached an arm over her slim waist and rested it against her belly.

  “Sweet dreams, Joy.” Steele kissed the back of her head.

  “Promise me you’ll be in them,” she whispered.

  “It’s not up to me. I’ll be there if you want me there.”

  In no time, Steele’s hand relaxed and she heard his gentle, rhythmic breathing. How had life suddenly become so complicated? She had thought that moving to Wine Valley and finding Max would lead her to a life she had wanted to live—one free of drama. She had imagined Wine Valley as a pristine, homey utopia—her sanctuary after Sam was shot and killed. And maybe it could have been, had she not pushed for answers. Or maybe there was no such place as paradise, because where ever men and women resided, so, too, did corruption and evil.

  Joy put a hand over Steele’s.

  She remembered Draven Blackmoor’s final words when she had broken it off with him. “You’ll never be free of me, Joy. Never. No one else knows what we know. They don’t feel what we feel. No one else sees the dark side of you and loves it like I do! No one!”

  Joy felt Steele’s breath on the back of her neck, the weight of his arm draped over her body. She would fight for him—for them—and for Max. She would fight for paradise. And that meant she had to fight Draven Blackmoor head-to-head. She hadn’t the strength to do it before. But she did it earlier today. Blackmore had stepped forward to see if she’d step back. She held her ground.

  Sam Burton, Max King, Reed Steele—Wine Valley—they’d given her the strength to meet Draven Blackmoor head-on, and she would bury his ass once and for all.

  But for now, she held her hand against Steele’s so tightly, it surprised her that he didn’t wake up. She closed her eyes, half afraid to sleep and face her nightmares and half anxious to get to San Diego to face her living demon, Blackmoor, one last time.

  10

  Joy slipped out of bed early and dressed in dowdy fashion for the day—she wore everything she knew Draven Blackmoor would hate: gray sweat pants and a matching hooded jacket with a flowered T-shirt. Sam Burton gave her the T-shirt on her sixteenth birthday. When she unwrapped the box, covered in floral paper—Sam liked flowers, especially daisies—she cringed. She held the shirt up like holding up a dirty diaper.

  Sam could not contain his glee—or perhaps pure hope. “Flowers will make people think you’re approachable.”

  “But I’m not,” she had answered. She left the shirt at home, hanging in the closet, but she’d never thrown it away. Even when she’d move home, she could not bring herself to wear it.

  But this morning, she clipped off the sales tag and tugged the shirt over her head. Sam was with her—his hopes and his faith in her.

  Steele seemed disappointed to wake up and find her in the kitchen, fully dressed.

  “Something I said?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” It was a lie. She’d slept well. But she needed to clear Blackmoor out of their lives so she could go back to being in a relationship with Steele. A lie of omission was still a lie. It hung in the air between them like a scythe ready to swing and sever the sprout of their relationship before it had even begun to grow.

  Steele had asked about her plans for the day. Luckily, he’d already planned to visit his mother in Los Angeles. “I’d like you to meet her. One day.” His voice expressed his nervousness. It cracked with an if-it’s-not-too-soon backpedal.

  “Really? I’d like that. Not today, though. I’ve got a million errands to run before Monday morning.”

  “Right. This is dumb, but can I take your picture?”

  Joy laughed. “What? Why?”

  “Mom won’t believe I have a girlfriend if I don’t have a picture. She’ll say, ‘You’re not serious if you don’t have a picture. Playboys have no picture.’” Steele imitated his mother’s voice.

  “I’m not really dressed for it.”

  “Neck up. I promise.”

  Joy agreed. She tugged at her clothes and made sure her hair sat just right. She didn’t smile, though.

  Steele paused. “Hey, smile like you care or Mom will think I took a picture of someone I arrested.”

  “Hmmm. Happen before?”

  “Never! I don’t lie to my mother—except about cop stuff. If she knew, she’d have a heart attack. She’s just doubtful about my ability to sustain relationships.”

  That made Joy smile in earnest. Her eyes lit up. Steele snapped the picture.

  “Thanks for staying over. And for making me laugh.”

  “Yeah, you’re worried. I can tell.” Steele hopped off the barstool and swept around the counter to the kitchen side, where Joy scooped scrambled eggs from a frying pan and set them on plates next to steaming leftover frittata. Steele wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. “Whatever it is, you’ll let me in on it, right?”

  Joy turned and shimmied out of his arms. She set the pan in the sink. She turned to face him and leaned back against the counter. “Sometimes, I need to sort it out in my head before I can talk.”

  “That’s not me. I’m a verbal thinker, so you’ll get it as I’m sorting it out. Kinda comes out mashed up that way, but a sounding board helps me process.”

  “Who was your sounding board on the Inca trail?”

  “First, there was this Inca guide and shaman. He helped me reconnect to Pachamama—Mother Earth. To be honest, I think he was happy the trail had come to an end. I talked his ear off. But, at the Gate of the Sun, I met an unusual couple. They sort of adopted me.”

  “Mother Earth. I get that. Keeping our feet grounded.”

  Steele stepped forward. He slid his hand around Joy’s waist. “Joy. We’ve survived a lot of shit. And we’re alive. I think I’m ready to live, but if you’re not, I’m not going to push you or drag you along unwillingly.” He leaned down and kissed her, and in that kiss, he gave her hope that she too could connect to something or someone. His lips were soft and sure.

  But she had a long way to go to get there. “I’m just sorting, not pulling back.” She kissed him with urgency, but it felt awkward, forced. She tried too hard to convince him, and she worried he’d know it. She had to rid herself of Blackmoor’s shadow that stood between them.

  The drive to San Diego wound between hills and sma
ll towns, until Joy’s SUV crested over the highest peak and dropped down, edging ever closer to the coast.

  The San Diego convention center stretched along the San Diego Bay. Boats lined up along dock after dock. The building’s iconic white canvas sails stretched over the main pavilion like a ship braving the blue barrel windows that represented rolling waves on which the ship sailed. Gray buttresses angled downward like oars in the water. The law enforcement convention was well underway by the time Joy arrived, shortly before lunch.

  Joy grabbed a coffee and milled through the exhibit hall. A few new gadgets caught her attention, especially in the technology section, where one presenter talked about law enforcement’s attempts to infiltrate the deep web. A surprisingly non-geeky cute guy gave his pitch: “And within the deep web lies the dark web, an undiscoverable segment to those who do not have the specific access information, such as an IP address and a password. Search engines cannot locate these sites. They are used for illegal activity, such as child pornography, gun sales, and private networks shared by select individuals streaming content as disturbing as it is illegal.”

  Joy checked her watch. It was time to find the lecture hall where Blackmoor would speak about serial killers and his latest book. She found the elevator, ascended to the upper level, and wandered down the hallway. The sign outside of the corner ballroom had a placard on a stand with Draven Blackmoor’s image, holding his book.

  After she’d broken up with Blackmoor and completed her FBI training, he decided to show up at her graduation ceremony in March. After the ceremony, families gathered to snap pictures and offer congratulatory hugs and kisses.

  Joy stood with Sam. “I’m so proud of you, Joy.”

  “Thanks, Sam. Me too.”

  Blackmoor came out of nowhere. “Mr. Burton, pardon my intrusion. I’m Draven Blackmoor; I had the pleasure of working with your daughter at Yale. She was my research assistant. I just wanted to introduce myself to you and congratulate Joy.”

  “Draven,” she mustered through a fake smile. “What a surprise.”

  Blackmoor reached out and slipped his hands around Joy’s waist. He squeezed her with an unwanted hug. “Congratulations!” It caught her completely off guard. She kept her eyes focused on Sam to get through it. Sam’s brows arched in concern, seeing Joy’s reaction. It was all she could do to stay calm and regurgitate a fake smile. Erupting would create a scene—that would lead to questions that she did not want to answer. As quickly as he had slid in, he slid out again.

  “I know of you,” stammered Sam Burton without reaching to shake his hand. That was all he said. News had already flown around that Blackmoor’s reputation had come into question. But Joy had never mentioned that she had dated him. When Blackmoor left, Sam added, “Joy, I’m glad you’re working for the FBI, but you always have a place at home with me. I just wanted you to know that.”

  Joy nodded. “I know, Sam.”

  Four months later, after multiple computer forays to dig into her past proved less than fruitful, she personally handed the FBI director, Reno Webb, her resignation, and she moved to San Diego. That year and a half of living with Sam, even though she could have afforded an apartment of her own, strengthened her from head-to-spine-to-toes.

  Her ship, battered by storms and listing badly, began to right itself and edge forward, wind in the sails. It stayed that way until a call came in from the captain of the S.D.P.D.

  Joy’s head dropped with the weight of that memory. She would never forget that call. Or the quaint section of town. Or the white house with a porch and a white picket fence that gave it a gingerbread appearance, except that the house had been neglected.

  “Sam is being held hostage,” said the captain. “He volunteered himself as a replacement for the hostages—a woman and her two children.”

  The moment Joy arrived at the scene, someone handed her a phone, and she dialed the number on the screen. The voice that answered had a New York accent. “Go away or he dies.”

  “I’m a negotiator. We’re just going to talk. My name is Joy, what’s yours?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Fair enough, but the officer you’re holding is my business. Let him go and I’ll make sure you get out of there alive.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I can’t protect you. As long as he lives, you live.”

  The line went silent for a time.

  “Come inside.”

  “I can’t do that. You’ve already got one hostage. We won’t make it two.”

  “Okay. I’ll send him out. Don’t shoot.”

  The door cracked open. Sam Burton, his hands in the air, stepped forward. He kept a stiff pace as he descended the stairs.

  Joy’s face lit up as he put one foot before the other and descended the porch steps. But her heart pinched inside her chest, knowing that the flak jacket only protected Sam’s torso. She wanted to rush up to him, but she had to wait excruciating seconds for him to reach safety. As he neared her, he gave her a nod, a genuine good-job and I’m-happy-to-see-you smile.

  No matter what Joy had experienced before, nothing had ever brought her more pain than this moment.

  The young boy in his twenties had remained in the house, his weapon poised to shoot.

  Joy willed her father the last few feet. She breathed a sigh of relief when the tip of the gun receded and the front door closed. “Dad,” she thought to herself. She was ready to say it the moment she had him in her arms.

  Sam reached out for her.

  Joy extended her arms to receive him.

  Sam stepped closer. He had gray hair and gray stubble, made all the brighter by his tanned face and cool blue eyes. He had adopted Joy in his forties, but now, turning sixty-two in another week, he still seemed young to her, maybe because he worked out in the gym five times a week, or maybe because he was her father, so her eyes refused to let him age. Another step and he would be in her arms. His smile widened, dimpling his cheeks.

  Multiple shots rang out all at once: the officers fired tear gas canisters into the house, shattering the windows. Joy felt the whoosh of a projectile zip past her ear. Sam fell backwards.

  Joy’s hands swung through the empty air to grab him, but they missed. She screamed, “Sam!” She dropped beside his lifeless body. “Sam! Dad!” No answer.

  Joy cradled his head in her hands as if she could stem the flow of blood and life that drained from the hole that had pierced his forehead and raced through is skull. It made no sense. He’d been shot as he walked toward her. No one seemed to hear Joy over the barrage of the assault.

  “Go! Go!” shouted the officer in charge. The team broke down the door and stormed inside wearing gas masks and aiming their weapons.

  Another shot rang out from inside the house.

  Joy searched the row of houses across the street. Whoever shot Sam Burton had long disappeared. Was it a trap? Or just an angry gang member getting back at law enforcement?

  Only the fact that it was a clean shot, which meant Sam didn’t suffer, brought Joy any solace at his passing.

  The FBI director, Reno Webb, a statuesque black man with pronounced cheekbones, attended Sam’s funeral. “Sam had enemies. He put away Belladonna and a lot of others over the years. But the case will remain open, Joy. I’ll see to it.” He offered her a home at the FBI, but it felt like her ship had sunk and nothing could raise it from the bottom of the sea.

  But Max had raised her ship. Finding Steele had raised it too. Finding out Max was her half-brother brought her ship above the surface again.

  Joy entered the ballroom ready to face Blackmoor. She took an aisle seat about halfway down the rows of chairs. Others had dressed just as casually, so she blended well. The seats were full and people stood at the back to hear Blackmoor speak. There had to be a couple thousand seats. The tarnish to Blackmoor’s reputation had two repercussions: his non-profit out-reach program dissolved and he became famous.

  Joy thought of Max and Steele. She had learn
ed to feel again. Blackmoor would not take that away from her.

  11

  After the announcer read Blackmoor’s introduction from a page in her hands, Blackmoor strutted over to the podium with confident arrogance. He wore a headset mic. “Welcome, friends and colleagues, and an especially warm welcome to the law enforcement personnel among us. We appreciate your service and dedication to catching the evil-doers among us.

  “Evil. The definition of that word runs the gamut from ‘disagreeable,’ like in an evil temper, to ‘morally reprehensible,’ as in an evil impulse, to ‘nefarious,’ as in causing physical or psychological damage. Yet some serial killers believe they are helping people or helping mankind. Today, we will burrow into the cranium of the serial killer, and I mean that as graphically as you can imagine, for if you do not think like they think and understand the factors that created them, you will never catch them.

  “First, for the newbies among us who did not do their homework, let me tell you a little about myself and why I entered this field. I lived with my parents in New York while working on my PhD. I met Francis—we’ll use first names only—an undergraduate. He had signed up for a class I taught about serial killers. Francis became so enamored with me, I called him my shadow.”

  Draven stepped out from behind the podium. Joy watched his every move. This one was meant to close the distance between him and his audience, to pull the audience into his world and create an empathetic bond.

  “One May night a week before graduation, I heard a noise that woke me up. Like most boys, I had a bat in my room—not mine—my older sister’s. I never played sports.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “I entered my parents’ bedroom and confronted Francis. He had slit my parents’ throats. But what I remember most is how Francis smiled at me. I’ll never forget it—I was horrified. He was happy, at peace even. Like he’d done a good thing and deserved a thank you. After confessing to other murders, he said he wanted to stop killing. He slit his own throat right in front of me.”