THE BLUE HOUR

by T. Jefferson Parker

  For just a moment she thought about who she was, and about how strong she was. She remembered the most important thing she had learned in her life thus fan you are powerful and you can make things bend to your will as long as you try hard enough.

  Your will is the power to move the world.

  So she set the resistance even higher than the first time. Effort was how things got moved. Effort was pain. Pain was strength.

  She looked at herself in the mirror as she stood on the pedals to get them going. Pale as a sidewalk, she thought, and about as good looking.

  Merci thought of Hess to steady herself—how he might do this, his economy and focus. She liked the way he didn't waste anything. She couldn't forget the look on his face that morning when he'd seen the hood of Ronnie Stevens's car. It was the saddest, wisest face she'd ever seen. He looked like Lincoln. But he had been diminished by what he had seen. The Purse Snatcher had taken something from him, she thought, and that made her feel angry on Hess's behalf. For him. For someone not herself. It was nice to admire someone you didn't want to be.

  Thirty minutes on this bike should do it, she thought: burn the foolishness out of my brain and burn the strength into my muscles.

  • • •

  She picked up an ankle holster for her .40 cal derringer, got some takeout food and brought it home. Home was a rambling house that used to belong to the owner of the large orange grove that surrounded it. But most of the grove was dozed years ago for housing tracts, all but a couple of acres, around the house, which was now owned by a friend of her father and rented cheap. It was old and the faucets groaned and the fuses blew in heat waves and the garage was full of black widows. It sat back at the end of a long dirt drive that filled with potholes in winter and bred dust in summer.

  The land was flat and you wouldn't even know the housing tracts surrounded the grove because the trees were healthy and high. It was like living inside a wall of green. Merci liked the cheap rent and the smell of the orange trees and blossoms and the fact that she had no neighbors to consider. She thought little of strolling around in nothing but her underwear, behind open windows and screen doors, stereo and Sheriff's band short wave turned up loud while the orange grove cats lounged in the sunshine on her porch, licking themselves incessantly, alert to the sound of the food bag. Once in a while she'd walk out through the rows and look at things. Not much to see, really, because the big citrus company that worked these acres did a meticulous job. The workers were quiet Mexicans who hid their cheerfulness when she was around.

  She stared back at one of the cats as she unlocked the door, then picked up the fast food and holster and went inside. She loved many things about cats without loving any one cat in the least. The place got hot during the day so she opened all the windows and doors, then went to her bedroom and stripped down to undies and her sport shirt with the sleeves rolled up, working off her bra and tossing it on the floor. She set her holster and automatic beside the bed, which is where it stayed when it wasn't on her. She strapped on the new ankle rig and slid in the derringer—lots of play, but thestrap was good and taut. Skivvies or not, it was good to have a gun on, or at least one in each room, positioned where she could get it quick if she needed to. One of her father's habits. She had no fear at home. This was more or less a game she played to keep her life interesting.

  Again she pictured her partner's face that morning. In the same way that something was taken out of Hess, something was taken out of her, too, and this reminded her that nothing they did would make a difference in the long run. The short run was their stage, collar the creeps and maybe save a life or even two.

  But a purse full of human guts sitting on a Chevy Malibu in the pretty Southern California sunshine put you in your place. It said: you might find the perpetrator of this, but there will be other perpetrators of even worse things to follow. More and more of them, following your own children down the years if you ever have any. Job security, she thought. It really was a shame. It wasn't a surprise, though. Her father had taught her early on that being a cop was just plugging the dike for a while. It didn't make the calling any less genuine, but it suggested something about what you should risk your life for and what you shouldn't.

  Of course, her father was an ineffectual man who never risked one whisker for anything. A man who couldn't stand up to a crazy wife was doomed.

  She listened to her messages. One from Joan Cash, just a hi, how are you. One from bumbling, lovable old Dad— Merci's mother wasn't feeling well and it made her father frantic with worry. And one from Mike, saying he hoped she was okay, quite a workout she had in the gym today, coffee sometime? He must have called right after she left the weight room. That was all. They all seemed to imply so much obligation and worry. Sometimes Merci really didn't want to know how other people were feeling. Not that she didn't understand or respect those feelings. It was just that she didn't give a shit about them right that minute.

  She called Hess.

  No answer, so she left a message—nothing urgent, just wanted to talk, call if you want. She wondered if he was out getting pounded at the Wedge or maybe having another treatment. What a strange feeling to be him, she thought, to have almost seven decades of your life gone and maybe one left if you were completely lucky, but to be unsure if you'd see another year.

  She wondered how come he had gotten married and divorced so many times. Why he never had children. Why he came back to work on something like the Purse Snatcher. Hess was interesting to think about because he was so different from herself. It was funny that he'd told her she'd have to feel what others felt and think what others thought in order to get ahead in the department, in life itself. Maybe she could try to feel like him.

  It probably wouldn't be that hard because Hess was so large and simple. Of course, Mike McNally was large and simple too, until you got to know him. Then he seemed to grow small and hectic as a five-year-old at his own birthday party: me, me, me. She actually missed Mike right now, missed some of the casual hours. A guy who talked all the time made the hours seem longer. That was good. She missed his profile and the blue light on his cheeks when he was watching TV. And all the sweaty athletics in bed, well, she missed them too, although they made her feel things she wasn't in favor of feeling.

  But she wasn't about to talk to him every single night, be his current steady woman, baby-sit his resentful kid, get engaged or even talk about marriage. So, she broke it all off rather than just part of it—which part?—and that was enough to loose the dogs of hell on her. Mike's dogs. Mike's Truth Box. The hardest part of the whole miserable thing was the way Mike attacked her for being closed and cold and controlling, and apparently blabbing such things to everyone else, thus the remark in the cafeteria regarding her sexual preference. Just thinking about it made her face flush with anger.

  The phone rang and it was Hess.

  "I was thinking about you earlier," she said. "And I wanted to know if... well, I wanted to know ... how you're doing with this morning."

  "I'm hoping for prints off the interior."

  "Well, I am too. What I meant, though, was if you were doing okay now, after seeing that."

  "It got me. I remembered cleaning deer up in Idaho. The way the guts kind of stick together and fall out in one big mass. Hardly any blood. And I thought that was one awful thing to do to that girl."

  "Six, Hess. We're looking at six now."

  "I know. I just... it really makes you wonder where these guys come from. It's just pure meanness."

  "Where do they come from, Hess?"

  "I think they're born evil. That's not a popular notion these days but I believe it."

  "They say these monsters are created, not born."

  "I'm just disagreeing is all. I don't understand a guy who kidnaps and kills a woman, keeps her carcass but takes the time to do what he did with that purse. Again and again.

  What do you call that, besides just plain evil?"

  She thought. "It doesn't matter, really. For us." />
  "No, it doesn't."

  "It's interesting to think about, though."

  "Yeah. It raises "some interesting questions for Corrections and Sacramento and police science classes."

  "And for politicians," she added.

  "Writers."

  "Priests and evangelists."

  "I'll say, Merci."

  "I've always known that. Some guys are just born bad."

  "Well. I usually don't trust things that seem simple, but in this case I just can't help seeing it that way. It's what I've gathered over the years, is all. You see what you see."

  "Hey, Hess, what if I came over?"

  There was just enough of a silence to make Merci wonder if she'd done something wrong.

  "That would be great," he said. "Not much in the cupboards, though."

  "I'll bring something to eat."

  "There's a parking space behind the garage."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  A quick shower and clean clothes, plus Merci wanted Hess to know that she liked him now, so she tossed the old fast food and stopped for some new. She overbought, then wondered if a guy on chemo and radiation ate much of anything. Fries and shakes, hamburgers, tacos, onion rings, the works.

  She was surprised to find his apartment neat and clean, the opposite of Mike's place in Anaheim. She suspected it was a furnished rental unit until Hess told her so and removed all doubt. They sat in the living room at either end of a blue plastic couch, with the white bags strewn on the coffee table in front of them. Hess left the TV on. The windows were open and the shades up and Merci could see a pale prairie of sand topped by a black ocean topped by a blacker sky alive with stars. Voices wavered up from the sidewalk, laughter, the hiss of roller skates. Then the distant thump of waves followed by a sound like a soft drink poured over ice.

  She leaned forward and ate.

  "So, where were we?" she asked.

  "Evil, I think."

  "1 never think about evil. I just think you should be punished for what you do. Wow, these hamburgers are good."

  She looked across and saw that Hess was eating, too.

  "They really are."

  "Do you eat healthy?"

  "I have since the operation. Before, anything went."

  "How come you aren't fat? Alcohol is really high in calories, you know."

  "Metabolism."

  "Yeah, and thirty years of cigarettes."

  "Fifty-five."

  "You really are old."

  He chuckled but that was all.

  "I've got a terrible diet," she confessed. "I actually like cooking, but not for just me. So it's stuff like this half the time, decent stuff the other half."

  "You work it off, though."

  "I'm in the gym all the time. Damn, don't we sound like a couple of real Californians now, talking about what we eat and what we do with our muscles? I spend my vacation every year in Maine. Kittery, Maine. Dad took me out there when I was little so I still go. Anyway, they don't live like we do back there. You start talking lifestyle and they roll their eyes."

  "I always hated that word."

  "Me too. And anything with cyber in it I promised myself I'd never use it, now I just did."

  "Same with virtual."

  "Yeah. Virtual sucks. It's all just bullshit to get you thinking you're missing something new. So you'll go buy things. Makes me want to puke. Vanilla or chocolate on the shake?"

  "Chocolate."

  "Good. I got two of them."

  "And no vanilla."

  "Not a one." Merci heard herself giggle, then giggled at the sound of it. "I thought that was funny when Izma asked me if I wanted ice water, then, when I bit, he said he didn't have any ice or any water. That's one large creepy dude, Hess."

  "He was holding a frozen cat when I busted him. When he opened the door, I mean."

  "What did he do with it?"

  "He dropped it. It sounded like a rock on the floor."

  "Damn, what a hoot."

  "I was scared. I pistol-whipped him real hard to take him down. He hit the floor like a bag of nails, but after that, he was always real nice to me."

  "I noticed you got his attention. Do you like beating people up? Someone who really deserves it?"

  Hess was nodding. "When I was young I enjoyed it. Trouble is, it's hardly ever a fair fight, with batons and sidearms. You know?"

  "If you're a woman it's fair. I mean, if you're up against a guy you need all the help you can get."

  "I doubt you beat many up for the fun of it."

  She looked at him. "True. You'd think I'd do it a lot, given my bad temper and what a misanthrope I am."

  She thought of Lee LaLonde. "I actually didn't get that much enjoyment dunking the thief out in Elsinore. I mean, besides the thrill you get dominating someone physically. Just to know you can do it. But I got lots of enjoyment out of the results, though."

  "You got them."

  "Do you think I was wrong?"

  "No. You might have saved lives."

  "End justifies the means?"

  "That's another one of those simple statements that sort of bug me. But with LaLonde you did what was right."

  "How come you got married so many times? Wasn't it like, three or four?"

  He was about to take a bite of his hamburger. He closed his mouth and stared at her a long beat.

  "Three."

  "Well, why three? Wasn't once horrible enough?"

  "Stupidity."

  "Whose?"

  "Mostly mine."

  "You mean you gave up a good one or two?"

  "All three, really."

  "How come you never had children?"

  "Kept waiting. Waited too long. Some bad luck, too. Back when 1 was in my forties I wanted some. Never worked out."

  Merci thought about this.

  "I don't believe in luck. I think you're directly responsible for what happens to you."

  "I used to think that."

  "How else could it be?"

  "I don't think you can lay what happened on Ronnie Stevens, for instance. I think she crossed paths with someone much stronger and more cunning and vicious than she ever was. Within the limits of what we'd call reasonable, it wasn't her fault."

  "That's all this victimization bullshit you see on TV."

  "The TV's all the extremes."

  "Then why does everybody watch?"

  "It comforts them to think everything's out of control."

  "Bunch of goddamned whiners, if you ask me."

  Hess studied her. He had a way of looking disapproving and tolerant at the same time. Maybe she was making it up.

  "Power," she said. "Everything comes from the power you have inside yourself. Your will."

  That look again.

  "You've got this look, like you think two things at once."

  "I guess I do."

  "Well, what are they?"

  More of the same look. "Can I just say that I admire you a lot? Your youth and everything it implies. I like the way you wear it, what you're doing with it."

  "Even when I screw up?"

  "Yeah."

  She considered. "You're still thinking two things about me at the same time—things that don't go together except that you're making them."

  "I'm wondering how you can be so bright and so dull at the same time. How you'll either do really well for yourself or you'll fail big. Just notions."

  "Hey, I'm your commanding officer."

  "You asked."

  "I'm happy with this. This burger is great and it's nice to just sit here and talk about being a cop and a human being. Mike talked a lot but I don't think he listened to my side very much. Then it was either TV or bed."

  Hess said nothing.

  "Can you still, Hess?"

  "Still what?"

  "You know. It. Make love."

  His face went red and he looked at her again with that double-thoughts kind of expression.

  "I mean, when you're close to seventy, can you?"

&nbs
p; "Of course you can."

  A slight edge to his voice as he looked at the TV and the light from the screen played off his face. She couldn't tell if it was still red or not.

  "I wonder if my mom and dad still do it. They're your age."

  "You could ask them."

  "They're kind of sensitive."

  She was truly surprised to see him laugh. She realized she'd never seen him do that before and it changed everything about his face: lines backing into shape over his eyes and around his mouth, actual dimples on his cheeks. A happy light.

  Kind of amazing, really, how laughter could change a man. She realized she was looking at him with a kind of dumb astonishment.

  He really let go, then. Eyes wet, big chest and shoulders moving and the goofiest look on a face that had held no goofiness she'd ever imagined until now.

  "Goodness, young lady. You're funny."

  She wasn't sure how to feel about this. "Well... really?"

  "Really."

  She felt confusion about what she'd said, and some embarrassment along with it, and some shame, too. She wasn't a zoo chimp who'd done something cute. She thought of how heavy and tired he'd felt when she helped him out of the chair on Friday evening and thought he owed her more for that than just this sudden amusement.

  "Merci, I'm sorry. It's just that I haven't laughed in so damned long. I was not trying to make you feel bad."

  "Not at all," she said.

  "Really."

  "I know. Did you know we both use blue notebooks?' Anything to dampen the comedy.

  "Yeah, I did notice that. Hey, would you like to take a walk?"

  "Why?"

  "Well, it's a warm summer night and the ocean's right there and you can digest your meal and feed your soul."

  "Yeah, okay."

  Something had gone out of her—the lightness, she thought, the freedom to say what you want to say. She felt tired and miles from home. She tried to think of something to cheer herself up.

  "Hess, don't you wish it was raining and we had one of those upside-down umbrellas to collect the rainwater?"

  "Damn, those were great."

  "I would have bought one, but I was too busy being a hardass."