by Anne Frasier
Max could sympathize. His own head was throbbing.
It didn't look as if either of them had slept much the night before, and now they were both getting sluggish.
"There's an outdoor smoking area on the roof," he offered.
"You could probably use some fresh air yourself," Ivy said.
Max thought it a strange comment for her to make, an obvious invitation that he join her. Curious, he grabbed a bottled water from the stocked refrigerator and went along.
Outside, in a small alcove made of roofing tar, pea gravel, and a tiny picnic table, Ivy closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. "God, that feels good. How can something bad for you feel so good?"
Max didn't think it felt all that great. It had to be about 120 degrees out there on the roof. In the distance, he could see shimmering waves of heat rising off the nearby four-lane. He'd already had enough.
"I think the sun plays a greater role in all of this than we'll realize in our lifetime," Ivy said.
He took a long drink of water. "How's that?"
"I think it could be the root of our mental and physical well-being. Look at the deformed frogs that are being found in Minnesota. Scientists have proven that the deformities have something to do with the depletion of the ozone."
"I don't dispute that the deteriorating health of amphibians should be taken as a serious warning, but tying lack of sunlight to criminal behavior? You psychologists always go too far. If you'd just stop when you quit making sense, you could be taken a lot more seriously."
She laughed.
Lack of sleep did weird things to people. In some individuals, it slowed down certain thought processes. In others, it gave the brain a boost. One of the great crime fighters of all time, Eh Parker, cracked some of his biggest cases when he'd gone more than forty-eight hours without sleep. His theory was that it turned on the subconscious mind so that he was better able to access and understand things that hadn't been evident to him before.
"No amount of artificial light can make up for sunlight," Ivy said. "And now, with the diminishing ozone unable to filter harmful rays, making it foolish and dangerous to worship the sun—well, we're destroying what keeps us sane."
"You'd better go take a nap. My grandmother always said a fifteen-minute nap can mean the difference between sense and nonsense."
"Have you ever heard of the Griggs Light Deprivation Experiments?"
He shook his head.
"About fifteen years ago, some highly controversial natural-light studies were conducted. One of the tests required three students to live underground for six months. They would have no clocks, no TV, no radio. No outside stimulation of any kind. They could sleep when they felt like it, eat when they felt like it—and under artificial light, they could read all the books they desired. In return, they earned a tuition-free year of college."
"Quite a deal."
"Not really. Shortly after the experiment ended, the female subject killed herself. The two males were never able to return to their studies due to an inexplicable inability to concentrate.
"My question is: What effect, if any, does lack of sunlight have on the criminal mind? I propose that even in the most unsusceptible of people light deprivation can cause depression and, in some cases, seizures. In susceptible people, it can lead to neurotic behavior, even suicide. I was in the middle of applying for grant funding to determine if any correlation could be drawn when I received the call from Abraham."
"I hope you weren't going to put kids underground."
"I want to do comparison studies on the test results of adolescents who attend school in buildings with natural light and those of children who learn under artificial light. I'm hoping to prove the natural-light students do better."
"That's a fascinating theory. So fascinating that I have to again wonder what you're doing here. What is it about this case that makes it important enough to take you from your home and your work?"
He didn't expect an answer, and from the pained way she was staring at him, he didn't think he was going to get one. "Forget it." He finished his water. "I'm heading back. You can stay out here and bake if you want." He turned to leave when her next words stopped him.
"Max. Wait."
She'd never called him Max before, a clue he took to mean this could be something interesting.
When he turned back, she was looking away, in the direction of Grand Avenue.
"I have to tell you something."
She still didn't look at him, and he began to feel the heavy dread that sometimes came over him in confrontations with Ethan. It occurred to him that the last time a woman he barely knew had something important to tell him, it had been to say she was dying.
"Last night ... I couldn't sleep."
Even though her words were unremarkable, the feeling of dread didn't leave.
"I think we're all having that problem," he said.
"No, this is different."
She wanted out, he immediately decided. Just when he was getting used to her, she wanted out.
She swung around and he could see that the blinding sunlight had turned her pupils to pinpoints surrounded by blue.
"I'm Claudia Reynolds."
Blue, blue, blue.
She was watching him, waiting for some kind of response, but his brain had shut down. He was afraid his mouth may have dropped open.
"I can't keep it a secret any longer and remain part of this investigation."
"You're Claudia Reynolds?" He was having trouble processing the information.
"Yes."
As a detective, he'd come across a lot of hard-to- believe things, but he was rarely taken by surprise.
His mind refused to go in the direction she was trying to lead. She was bullshitting him. For some reason, she was bullshitting him. Claudia Reynolds was dead. A copy of her death certificate was in the original case file.
"You don't believe me?"
"Hell no!" he shouted. "Come on. Abraham was involved in the case. He would have known—" He stopped in midsentence, midthought.
Now things were coming together, possibly making sense. Abraham. Yes. Abraham had known. Abraham had also made the arrangements for Ivy to come to Chicago.
She pulled up her white top so that it rested above her rib cage. Her stomach was crisscrossed with raised scars, some white, some pink, as if they'd never really healed. She began to unbutton her khaki pants.
"Don't. You don't have to do that."
"You have to believe me."
Pinning her top between her chin and chest, she unzipped her pants to reveal an abdomen with the same crisscross scarring pattern. She raised her chin to look up at him. "Do you believe me, Detective?"
He was seeing her for the first time. For the very first time—with eyes that were at once discerning and burning with pity and anguish and anger and remorse. Rage toward the man who had done this rose in his throat, almost choking him. Even though her top had dropped back into place, he could still see the scars in his mind's eye, forever etched there, crisscrossing her abdomen.
"I believe you."
With a look of satisfaction, she rebuttoned and zipped her pants. "Good."
"Abraham," Max said woodenly, his mind staggering forward, grappling, trying to piece this entirely new puzzle together.
"He did it to save my life," she explained. "It was the only way. The killer would have found me. Killed me."
"Why are you here? Why did you come back?"
She stared at him a moment, then said with quiet conviction, "I'm going to catch that son of a bitch."
If the Madonna Murderer knew she was alive . . .
His mind ran the gamut from his discovery of her dead, lifeless body somewhere, sometime, to the possibility of the killer using her as a gambling tool. "Do you understand the danger you've put yourself in?"
"I'm not afraid."
How the hell had Abraham allowed this? No, sanctioned this? "If the killer finds out who you are, I might not be able to protect you.
"
"I didn't tell you who I am so you could protect me. I told you because I want you to know how much I can help. How important I am to this case."
She appeared lighter somehow. Of course. The weight of her burden had shifted to him. It was damn heavy.
She shook back her hair, pulling herself up straighter. "And I hate lies," she added.
Was she sane?
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"Abraham," he said, quickly shifting gears. "We have to tell him we've had this conversation. But no one else can know about you. Not even the others on the task force. It's too risky. If this were somehow leaked to the press, they would run with it and you would be the Madonna Murderer's next victim."
"Abraham could take me off the case. He could send me back to Canada."
"That might not be a bad idea."
She unbuttoned her shirt cuffs, then rolled up her sleeves.
What now?
On her upturned wrists were more scars. "These weren't done by the Madonna Murderer," she stated without emotion. "They were done by me."
She rolled her sleeves back down, looking as if she'd just finished with a sinkful of dirty dishes. "I spent two years in a Canadian mental institution. Do you know what kept me going, what made me decide that I wanted to live? Knowing he was still out there somewhere, hibernating but ready to strike again. I educated myself. I learned what I had to learn so that I could find the madman. Don't take that away from me."
"For some reason, your updated resume is failing to impress me. None of what you've told me fits the job description. Let me get this straight. Are you threatening to kill yourself if I pull you from the case?"
"Don't be absurd. If you pull me from the case I'll go to the press, tell them who I am, then sit and wait for the Madonna Murderer to show up. And when he does, I'll kill him.
Chapter 19
"Any interest in going for a drive?"
The voice at the other end of the line belonged to Max Irving. It was Sunday morning, and Ivy, who had stayed up half the night mulling over the case, was still in bed.
"A drive?" she asked, trying to sound wide awake, trying to pull her head together.
"Ethan and I are going for a drive north of Chicago. I thought you might like to come with us. Get out of your apartment for a while."
Her answer came without hesitation. "I'd love to."
It had been two days since she'd revealed her true identity to Max, and although on the surface things between them hadn't changed, she was aware of an undercurrent of mutual respect that hadn't existed before.
"We'll pick you up in an hour," Max said.
"I'll wait for you in front."
After hanging up, Ivy turned on the television, going directly to the weather channel. A cool front had moved in overnight, and the daytime temperatures weren't supposed to get above the high seventies. She took a bath and got dressed, putting on a pair of jeans and a black top with three-quarter-length sleeves. On her feet she wore jogging shoes.
Max arrived on time. Introductions were made, and Ivy's breath was taken away by Max's son. He was beautiful, with blond hair and Scandinavian features, high cheekbones and blue eyes. He looked nothing like Max, who was as dark as Ethan was light.
"Hi," he said, getting out of the front seat of Max's two-door car. He was reserved but polite.
"I'll get in back," she said insistently.
Max, who stood near the driver's door, shot his son a look, and Ivy could see her position in the car had already been discussed.
"That's okay," Ethan told her, sliding in. "I'd rather sit in back."
She didn't want to start out by making an issue of where she should sit, so she got into the passenger seat, quickly finding her seat belt and adjusting it.
It was one of those perfect days, a day with a cloudless sky and air that was clear and remarkably pollution-free.
They drove north on Sheridan Road, following the Lake Michigan shoreline.
"Is this too windy?" Ivy asked, looking at Ethan over her shoulder. She had her window cracked a couple of inches.
He pulled off his headphones, and she repeated her question. He shook his head. From his attitude, she discerned that he didn't consider her a pain in the ass—he just didn't consider her at all.
"What are you listening to?" she asked.
"Neil Young."
"Ah, another Canadian. Canada is known for its good musicians too," she said, shooting a glance in Max's direction in a teasing reference to their first meeting. For Max, he looked relaxed, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
"Do you know a lot about Canada?" Ethan asked, showing a little more interest in her.
"I live in Ontario," she said. "In a little town called St. Sebastian." She told him about the university where she taught. "It's a beautiful campus, lots of stone buildings."
"I saw Neil Young in concert. He opened for Pearl Jam."
"I saw Neil Young in concert too. Years and years ago."
"Have you ever been to Toronto?" he asked.
"Several times. It's only ninety miles from my house. A beautiful city, but I hate the traffic."
"Is it worse than Chicago?"
"Much."
"Have you been to the Hockey Hall of Fame?"
She smiled. "No, but I've heard of it. I've seen things about it on the news."
"Ethan and I are planning to go there sometime," Max said, keeping his eyes on the road.
Ethan didn't reply. Instead, he dropped back in the seat and replaced his headphones.
They stopped and bought sandwiches and drinks, taking them to a park near the Grosse Point Lighthouse. Once there, they found a picnic table overlooking the lake.
When they were finished eating, Max got a Frisbee out of the trunk and tossed it to Ethan. He caught it, but didn't toss it back.
"Come on," Max said. "You used to love to play Frisbee."
"I used to shit my diapers too, but I don't do that anymore."
Max laughed. "Throw it to me."
Ethan threw it.
Max caught it, then tossed it to Ivy, who was unprepared and missed.
Laughing, she got to her feet and ran after the Frisbee, picked it up and threw it to Ethan.
They played for about fifteen minutes.
After that, they toured the lighthouse, then walked along the beach.
"Remember the time we came here with Grandma and Grandpa Irving?" Ethan asked his dad.
In the last hour, a transformation had come over him. He was smiling and laughing and having fun. "Grandma waded out in the water, then she saw the SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK sign that said the water had a high level of bacteria in it. She was out in half a second, running all weird. Running toward the car, yelling at grandpa to quick, get the baby wipes. There were all these people around—a lot more than today—and it looked like, you know, like she'd shit her pants."
Max was laughing too, but now he apparently had to try to rein it in. He'd let Ethan get away with the shitting his diapers comment, but now, when Ethan's grandmother was involved, Max must have felt compelled to play parent. "You shouldn't talk about your grandmother like that."
"You know it was true. You know that's what everybody was thinking. Grandma thought it was funny too. Remember? She's probably still telling her buddies in Florida about it."
"She's your grandmother," Max reminded him.
"I know—"
Suddenly Ethan's expression changed. "Don't you mean your mother?" His smile vanished, and the light in his eyes was extinguished. He swung around and walked purposely down the shoreline, away from Max and Ivy.
"This parent thing is tough," Max said, "but I didn't think I could let that one go by."
"He's a nice kid," Ivy said. "I'm not just saying that. Some kids I know are absolute brats, and I have to he and tell their parents that they're charming, because who wants to hear that their kid is spoiled and obnoxious? Like you said, parenting is tough. There are no solid answers."
"
We don't get along like we used to," Max said with regret in his voice. "I know that's the way it is with teenagers, but it's hard to deal with. I'll be glad when he outgrows this phase."
"Often there's a basis for teenage angst. Teenagers have a tendency to overreact, and when something does bother them, they don't verbalize it. Even among themselves, teens rarely talk about real issues."
"He's gotten touchy lately about the fact that he's adopted."
Ethan was adopted? That explained why father and son looked nothing alike.
Max told her about Ethan's mother, and about how he'd come to adopt Ethan. It would have taken a lot of guts to do what Max had done.
"I keep wondering if we should get a dog," Max said, watching Ethan in the distance. "We used to have one, but it died last year. Old age. He was just a couple years younger than Ethan. I keep thinking we'll get a new one, that a dog would be good for Ethan, but neither of us is home enough to give a puppy the kind of care it requires. Maybe when this case is over. But then I think in another two years Ethan will be gone to college, so maybe we shouldn't get a dog at all.”
"What does Ethan think about it?"
Max thought a moment. "I don't know."
"Are you sure you two live in the same house?"
"I didn't ask you along so you could psychoanalyze my relationship with my son." He was beginning to sound more irritated with her than with Ethan.
"You aren't annoyed because Ethan and I were carrying on a conversation, are you?"
"I have to admit you displayed an uncanny skill for targeting in on his obsession. It was almost scary."
"Are you talking about music?"
"Dangle music in front of him and you can lead him anywhere. For a minute, I thought we were going to get into one of those who-I've-seen-in-concert scenarios."
"Do you like music?"
"I used to. When I was young. Then I got too busy for it."
"So do you look on music as something frivolous?"
He thought about that a moment. "Maybe so."
"Music is art, and art is an integral part of the human experience."
He stopped and stared at her in a threatening way. "Does everything always have to turn into something deep? Can't it simply be that I don't like music?"