A Sharp Solitude_A Novel of Suspense

by Christine Carbo

  So, I think, this is what it comes down to. You make a horrible mistake when you’re a kid, make a mess of your life, try like hell to get it back in order until finally you end up in the same place: dead, a casualty. Sam was a casualty of human folly, and now I would become a casualty of nature’s indifference.

  The branches of the alders wrap wetly around me, jabbing and stinging my injuries. Wetness has long ago seeped into my one good pant leg and through the bandaging I’ve applied. Through sweat and blood-filled eyes, I peer through the spindly twigs up at the great rocky ridges to the north tilting toward plateaus below. Night is falling around them and they appear like giant tidal waves about to crash upon me. I have this image of them crumbling, of dirt and rock rolling down in great waves like a lava flow. Then I picture the ground opening beneath me and swallowing me while I try to hold on to the thin, slippery tines of the alders.

  A pit forms in my stomach as I imagine what Ali will have to tell Emily when I don’t return home. I can see clearly now how my childhood disaster has always separated me from normal life. Suddenly it’s obvious how I’ve used nature to keep that veneer in place. But I’ve been beyond foolish. Being solitary isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Some people say there’s a difference between solitude and loneliness—that solitude implies health and inner peace, a worthy aspiration. But now I realize that kind of solitude is possible only if you’re connected to others in the first place. If you’ve already cut yourself off from everyone around you, then solitude will be your destruction.

  McKay looks up at me expectantly. “This way,” I say to him. I begin to move again, taking one careful step at a time down the next ridgeline.

  Ali

  * * *

  Present—Tuesday

  AFTER ROSE CAME down from the tree house, Herman cuffed her and escorted her to Brander and Reynolds, who were already on the scene. Before I gave my statement, I went to check on the girls. They were frightened, huddled on the couch right where I had told them to stay. I brought them to our house and dazedly made them toast and macaroni and cheese, then held them close to me while they ate until Kaylee’s mom arrived to pick them both up. I had called and asked if she could return the favor and take Emily home with her. Still shaken up from firing the rifle, Emily was clingy and wanted to stick with me, but I promised her everything would be all right, that she was fine and it was just an accident. She looked at me with her dark eyes, glassy and frightened, and I saw Reeve in them for a moment, but it quickly passed, and she became brave and said she was fine going with Kaylee, that it would be fun to have a sleepover on a school night. I helped her pack an overnight bag, kissed her good-bye, and told her I’d see her after school the next day. I had a feeling tonight was going to be a long one.

  Thirty minutes later, Herman, Shackley, and I are in the observation room with Commander Vance watching Brander and Reynolds try to talk to Rose. It’s not working. She sits with her arms across her chest, giving them the silent treatment. They are trying to wait it out, but her petulance practically radiates through the small room, through the one-way, and into the observation room. I brought her socks, shoes, and a sweat shirt from her apartment when I came, and when I reached in the coat closet for a jacket, I remembered what Gretchen told me about the wool fibers, so I put her black wool coat in a plastic bag and brought another one for her instead. I gave the bag with the coat to Brander.

  Rose is wearing the clothes I brought, and her hair has dried in dark, lank streaks down the sides of her face. Her cheekbones are pale and sharp. She looks like an entirely different woman to me, and I have to remind myself, This is Rose. Rose! There must be a better explanation than the one I’ve been mulling over.

  After Reynolds took Rose to the county building, and after I got Emily and Kaylee taken care of, Shackley had pulled me aside and told me that, given the circumstances, we could hold off on our meeting about my misconduct for a bit. In the meantime, he planned to stick around and observe. “Don’t mind me,” he had said, then took a seat in the corner, making everyone nervous with his commanding presence.

  In an interview, we want the truth, not a confession, not an admission. The truth. But to get the truth is sometimes very tricky. There’s a certain method and rationale to interviewing, and through the Bureau, all of us agents have taken courses on it. I’ll admit, I’m not very good at it. I’m too impatient, too direct, and anger too easily. But Reynolds—maybe I’m biased—he appears to be even worse than me. I think back to watching him with Reeve, how he could take a law-enforcement-weary guy like Reeve and make him so uncomfortable that he refuses to tell the whole story. That’s the opposite of what we’re supposed to do.

  Our job is to convince the subject that confiding in us is in his or her own self-interest, so we do that by finding an angle or an in. We try to find out what resonates by watching their body language and avoid coming on too strong, the way Reynolds did with Reeve, because the last thing you want is for the subject to close down. If someone is brought in for embezzlement, you might say, I know you’re having tough times; you wouldn’t be the first person to borrow money. Of course, it’s not borrowing, it’s stealing. But you’re seeing if you can get them to soften with a little empathy. Herman’s good at it, because with Herman, everyone feels like they’ve found a long-lost protective uncle. With me, people feel like they’ve just met an accusatory stranger.

  Reynolds is telling Rose that since she’s the one in possession of a weapon used to kill Anne Marie Johnson, she’s obstructing justice if she doesn’t talk, and that she needs to talk soon. The ballistics expert has come into the crime lab and confirmed that the slug they found in Anne Marie Johnson has land and groove impressions that show it originated from Reeve’s rifle. I turn to Vance and say, “This isn’t working. That’s my nanny in there. I’ve known her for four years. Let me go in.”

  “Absolutely not,” Brander says. “Are you kidding? That’s a major conflict of interest.” He ignores his own chain of command and turns to Shackley, which grates on me, because I’m thinking the only reason he’d look to Shackley for his take over his own commander is because he’s male. I see Shackley shake his head and give a single heavy blink to signal that it’s not a good idea. Vance catches Shackley’s headshake and agrees. “I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” she says to me. “Even if you were to get something out of her, it would get torn to shreds in court because of your connection to her. I can hear it now—the defense suggesting you planted the weapon in the nanny’s apartment to protect your kid’s father or, worse, yourself.”

  Shackley’s my supervisor, and given my position, I should stay quiet. I should care that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but I don’t. My whole world feels like it’s unraveling, that on that cold gray day when Reeve called me, a piece of yarn was plucked free and now it just keeps unspooling. “That’s crazy,” I respond to Vance’s comment. “Rose is the last person I’d ever frame; she’s a lifeline for me.” The room goes quiet, with all eyes on me. I’m not sure if they’re considering the idea that maybe I did frame my own nanny, or if they’re looking at me because I’ve just gotten personal in front of a group of people who barely know me.

  Rose is still sulking in front of Reynolds, and I feel a shot of anger. I turn back and face them. “If I framed Rose, why would she be refusing to speak? She’d be surprised, in shock, but she’s not. She clearly knew it was there. She ran and hid, for god’s sake.”

  No one responds, and I feel like an idiot, but I don’t care. I’ve said my piece.

  Finally, after about ten more minutes of painful silence and useless prodding by Reynolds, he scoots his chair back from the table and stands. “We’re getting nowhere,” he says to Rose. “I guess you’ll just have to spend the night in jail.” He collects his cell phone and his file and heads for the door.

  Finally Rose speaks. “Wait.”

  Reynolds turns to look at her.

  “I’ll talk, but not to you.”

  He s
tands there waiting for more.

  “I’ll talk to the black guy,” she says.

  “Agent Marcus?”

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to him.”

  In the observation room, I turn to look at Herman. He doesn’t look fazed, just continues sitting, one hand on top of a leg, the other draping over the table he’s sitting beside. Rose knows Herman just as Emily does because he’s been over for barbecues and other dinners over the years. She enjoys his company—probably finds comfort in his presence like I do, like Emily does. And it hits me—she’s no dummy. She’s making sure things are on her terms. How could I have missed it? My daughter’s nanny is much more calculating than I ever expected.

  “Okay,” Reynolds says to her, “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  And just like that, Reynolds returns to the observation room and grabs Brander, and the two go out in the hallway to speak privately. I go to Herman immediately, pull up a chair, and scoot in so close to him I can smell his aftershave, something lemony that I’ve smelled a million times in our office, but up close, it’s strange, like I’m invading his space. I don’t care, though. “Herman,” I whisper, ignoring Shackley’s watchful eyes in the corner, “if they let you go in, please let me communicate with you. I know Rose, and I’ll know when she’s telling the truth and when she’s lying.”

  Herman stares at me blankly, his face a statue’s. It suggests that he’s entirely unimpressed with me and anything I have to say at this point, but I know it takes work to freeze his features like that, effort borne of anger and disappointment in me.

  “Come on, Herman,” I press on. “Just keep your phone handy. I know her.”

  “Ali.” He looks me dead in the eye. “You obviously don’t know her like you think you do.”

  He’s right and it stings. He’s furious, I tell myself, that’s why he’s saying this. That’s all. But he’s also right. If my theory is correct, I don’t know this woman at all, and I cannot let myself go there. There’s no time for self-analysis or self-pity. There’s only time to find the truth.

  Earlier, after I first arrived to give my statements to Brander and Reynolds, I sat down with Herman and admitted everything: that I’d taken his file, that I’d been researching all of the names of people Anne Marie Johnson had interviewed in prison, cross-checking for people who might have something to do with the Smith case, and that when I saw the name Vince Giles Reiko, I’d recognized it.

  “You what?” he had said, pulling his head back in disgust. “You stole the file from me?”

  I had looked at him without moving a muscle. “I’m sorry,” I had said, but even I could hear that it had sounded pathetic, a single drip of water on parched, cracked soil.

  “I can’t believe you’d do that, after you’ve specifically been asked to stay off the case.”

  “I know, Herman, but it’s just too close to home.”

  “That’s precisely why you’ve been ordered to stay out of it.”

  “But it had gotten out of hand with this BOLO and Reeve holing up in the woods. I had to do something. Herman, listen to me. I know in my heart that Reeve did not kill Anne Marie Johnson.”

  Herman had taken it in, staring at me with disbelief, like a spouse on the receiving end of an infidelity confession.

  I felt horrible and wanted to melt into the floor when looking at his hurtful stare. I knew things would never be the same between us, but the sense that things would never be the same in any part of my life anyway hung in the air around me—and still does—so I had pushed on. “I know. I know you’re disgusted with me. I might be too if the roles were reversed, but what if you felt like you were backed into a wall? What if you felt like you had to do something for your family, for your sister, for your niece or nephew?”

  Herman’s eyes had flashed at me, and I could see I had struck a chord.

  “Please,” I had continued, “you want to know what I’m thinking, right?”

  He had sat for a moment before answering, as if he was considering if he did want to hear what I had to say or not, even rubbing his chin and narrowing his eyes. Finally he had given a single nod, and I had felt myself let out a pent-up breath. I laid it out for him: I told him I was certain Anne Marie Johnson had interviewed Rose about the incident with Vince Reiko, that Emily had even seen her, and that if my suspicions were correct, Vince Reiko had given Anne Marie Johnson information that Rose didn’t want her to have.

  I had already told this to Reynolds and Brander and asked them to have someone visit Reiko at the state prison. I had told them all that Emily had recognized Anne Marie’s picture in the paper, said she knew her, but not through Reeve. I had told them that I thought perhaps Anne Marie came to visit Rose when she was watching Emily. I theorized that Rose eventually agreed to talk to her, and found out that Anne Marie had been interviewing the man who had shot her adopted sister. “I think you need to talk to Reiko,” I had pleaded with them all, but mainly with Brander and Vance. “He’ll have answers.”

  “Why should we believe your theories, Agent Paige?” Brander had asked. A simple question that said it all. I had blown any respect I’d earned in this community of law enforcement professionals.

  “Look,” I had pushed on, “Emily confirmed for me that she met Anne Marie through Rose.”

  “You know as well as I do that five-year-olds don’t make reliable witnesses.”

  “I know, I know, but come on. Rose ran. She freaked and she ran. That’s not the behavior of someone innocent.” As I spoke, I realized my words were implicating Reeve too, so I rushed to add: “Plus, the rifle was in her possession.”

  “I already interviewed her about Reiko,” he had said. “The day I came to your house.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, we already knew from the victim’s cell phone records that she had made contact with your nanny.”

  So they had been more thorough than I’d given them credit for. “But if Rose didn’t have anything to hide, why didn’t she tell me all of that? Especially after you questioned her? She specifically told me that you asked her only about Reeve.”

  Brander had agreed it was strange. He had promised to read the notes again and to talk to Vince Reiko while Reynolds continued to interrogate Rose.

  Now, sitting by Herman, the scent of fresh citrus from his aftershave surrounding us, I’m comforted that he’ll get a shot at interrogating her. “Fine,” I say to Herman, “you’re right. I don’t know her like I think I do, and yes, that scares the shit out of me, to think that . . .” I peter out. I can’t finish because I’ll choke up: to think that I’ve let a possible murderer take care of my daughter for the past several years is unimaginable. I look down at the tan industrial-grade carpet in the observation room instead. “But you’ll listen to me, right? You’ll check my texts?”

  Herman doesn’t answer, just stares at me, unblinking.

  Finally Brander and Reynolds reenter the room. “Agent Marcus,” Brander says. “If you’re up for it, the subject would like to see you.”

  • • •

  A half an hour later, we all watch Herman go in and take a seat across from Rose. She’s been sitting with her head down on the table as if she’s resting, but I can tell she’s not. Her hand is tucked in where we can’t see it, but I can tell by the tiny movement of her jaw that she is biting a thumbnail. When Herman comes in, she instantly raises her head, her thumbnail still in her mouth. She looks very young, immature. She seems reassured when she sees him, dropping her hand from her face and relaxing her shoulders some.

  Herman says hello to her and turns the recorder back on. “I assume you’ve already been asked about the recording of these exchanges, correct?”

  She nods, and he pulls out a chair and takes a seat. “You’ve had an interesting evening.”

  “Yeah.” She sighs. “It’s been crazy. I—I don’t know how it’s come to this.” She looks around. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I just didn’t want to talk to them, though. I’ve heard how cops can be. I
wanted to talk to you. I don’t have anything to hide. I just want to speak to someone I’m comfortable talking to, that’s all.” She speaks as if she’s relieved to be able to finally tell someone something.

  “That’s perfectly fine, Rose,” Herman says. “I don’t mind at all.”

  “I can’t believe I’m sitting here over something as silly as Reeve asking me to keep his rifle.”

  “The rifle belongs to Reeve?”

  “Yes, it’s his.”

  “What’s Reeve’s last name? For the recorder?”

  “Landon,” she says. “Reeve Landon. Emily’s father. Anyway, he asked me to keep it.”

  “Why did he do that?” Herman asks.

  “He wanted to get it out of his life, away from Emily. You know, with his record and all.” Her eyes are wide and blue as the summer sky.

  “His record?” Herman plays dumb.

  “Yeah, don’t you know? Hasn’t she told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “That he shot a kid when he was young.”

  “I see.” He says this like it doesn’t affect him one way or another, and Rose sits and stares at him, waiting for more questions. It’s obvious to me where she’s going with it. She’s going to put this back on Reeve. After all, it is his gun. It’s an easy out, and a part of me wonders if they planned this together. The thought almost forces me out of my chair, but I stay seated. “When did he give you the rifle?” Herman asks.

  “About a week ago, when my car broke down. He needed me to pick up Emily and take her to dance class for him because he was going to be late in the field that day. He said he wouldn’t be using his truck anyway, so he let me have it for the day, you know, while my car was in the shop.”