Death Never Lies

by David Grace

  “The decision of the Court of Appeals is reversed.”

  The vote was six to three with Mr. Justice Hopper siding with the majority. He did not write a separate opinion and said nothing at all beyond “I concur.”

  The Respondents promised to place a measure repealing Lyla’s Law on California’s November ballot. Pollsters gave it a fifty-fifty chance of being successful.

  When he heard the decision Kane wondered if saving Justice Hopper’s life had made any difference at all. Even if Hopper had died it still would have been a vote of five to three in favor of the law. Or would it?

  Kane had to wonder what had made Mr. Justice Wheeler apparently switch sides. Had the attacks on the life of one of their own affected the Court’s thinking? If Carl Feeney hadn’t dispatched an assassin to murder Hopper would the result have been six to three to uphold the law or perhaps five to four to strike it down?

  Kane figured that no one would ever know.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Upon the announcement of the Lyla’s Law decision the atmosphere in Senator Arthur Denning’s office was euphoric. Perhaps because of her inevitable association of the gun case with Gregory Kane, Allison Varner politely deflected all references to the matter and tried to pretend as much as possible that it did not exist. That evening, worn down and vaguely sad, she ate her dinner at the coffee table while the evening news filled the TV. When the picture of the Supreme Court building appeared she turned off the sound. Random images of angry crowds, robed men and talking heads flashed by. Eventually, a video of a smiling man and woman holding a three-year-old girl appeared. Thinking that the gun case coverage has run its course she turned on the sound.

  “We just want to thank all of the people who worked so hard and so long to make this possible,” the woman said. “Even though Lyla is gone, this law bearing her name will stand as a shield to help protect our daughter, Ellen, and all the other children in this state.”

  “Ms. Masterson, the opponents of Lyla’s Law have vowed to begin an initiative campaign–”

  Allison jammed her finger back down on the mute button. Masterson? Those were Lyla’s parents? After Lyla had been killed they had chosen to have another child, another little girl? Allison thought. How could you do that? She wanted to scream. How could you abandon Lyla that way? How could you have another child as if Lyla was replaceable like a failed car or a broken washing machine? You should have . . . .

  Suddenly confused, Allison couldn’t finish the sentence. Never had another child? Lived your lives in perpetual grief? Crawled into a hole and ceased to exist? a little voice in the back of her mind asked. None of those things made any sense, she knew. But how could you face the pain of possibly losing another child? Allison demanded. What if this girl, this Ellen, was shot or hit by a car or fell off her bicycle? Or got cancer like my Brian?

  One and out? the tiny voice demanded. One terrible thing happens and you become so paralyzed by the fear of it happening again that you stop living? it sneered. Yes! Yes! Allison shouted at her traitorous self. Once bitten, twice afraid? the nagging voice asked. She had heard that voice, faintly, once or twice before, but she had always been able to silence it, to drown it out. But now it had come back louder than ever.

  I can’t! I can’t! she shouted at herself. Images of bombed-out buildings and bodies lying in the street flickered across the TV and Allison mashed the power button until her finger hurt. She found a bottle of bourbon in the cupboard and poured an inch of it into a glass. She didn’t usually drink the stuff but all the scotch seemed to have disappeared. This was Brian’s bottle, still at the same level it had held the last time he went into the hospital. Knowing that they would not allow him any whiskey he had made himself a farewell drink. He liked it over ice. He said that bourbon was one of America’s great contributions to the world.

  Before she finished her glass Allison’s head began to spin and she lay back and closed her eyes. For no reason that she could name she began to cry.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Allison woke up with sore joints and a nagging headache and vowed never to drink bourbon again. She looked into her closet and the task of picking out her wardrobe for a day at the office seemed overwhelming. After unsuccessfully working her way down to the end of her closet she took a step back then picked up the phone and called in sick. When she wandered out toward the kitchen she spotted the bourbon bottle still on the counter. That was something that she definitely had to get out of the apartment. She found an empty cardboard box, put the bottle in it, then checked behind the bar for any other surplus items. Soon several ancient, half-empty bottles of flavored liquors were packed in the carton as well.

  Feeling for the first time in weeks as if she had accomplished something, Allison attacked the kitchen. She pulled all the items off the shelves and quickly filled the trash bin with stale crackers, moldy bread crumbs and chipped plates. With liquid soap and a scrubby sponge in hand she next went to work on the shelves themselves. As Allison scrubbed her energy returned and upon finishing with the kitchen she decided that the bedroom needed a good cleaning too.

  Soon she was running low on soap and had filled all the wastebaskets. At the very least she would need to load up on cleaning supplies, garbage bags, and cardboard boxes. After finishing her shopping she stopped for a quick lunch then went back to work. Her closet proved to be a treasure trove of surplus dresses that no longer fit or whose styles were hopelessly out of date, sweaters she had received as gifts from Brian’s mother and would rather die than wear, scuffed shoes, and worn-out stockings. Those items that still had some life in them went into a box for the Salvation Army and those hopelessly frayed found themselves stuffed into one of the black plastic bags.

  Halfway through the afternoon she had worked her way almost to the end of the rack and ran into Brian’s brown, wool suit. He had hated that suit, the product of an impulse buy that he instantly regretted. Well, maybe the Salvation Army had a client who needed a decent suit for a job interview. Allison carefully folded it into the bottom of a fresh box. The suits all came with vests but while Brian never wore them he was too thrifty to just throw them away. Into the box they went. Then she came across the drawer filled with Brian’s underwear, handkerchiefs and socks. What was she supposed to do with old jockey shorts? Some people used them as cleaning rags but the thought creeped her out. They ended up in one of the plastic bags.

  Brian’s shirts were a problem. They were all folded and starched. He had loved those shirts. Well, whoever got the suit would need the rest of the outfit. She picked out two shirts that went with the brown suit and then three ties that also matched. And so it went. She paused for dinner but the cleaning seemed to energize her soul and she moved on to the other rooms. When she finally stopped around midnight, too tired to even think, the bedroom floor and half the hallway were hip deep in boxes and bags.

  She woke the next morning just before ten and felt as if she had spent the previous day breaking rocks. She glanced at the legends neatly printed on the boxes in Magic Marker – “Suits”, “Dress Shirts & Ties”, “T-shirts & sport shirts”, “Pajamas.” What was she doing? That was all that she had left of Brian. She could see him still, his silly smile, the way he tilted his head when he was confused. A few cardboard boxes? No, Brian wasn’t some collection of old sweaters and ragged sweat shirts any more than he was in some hole in the ground. That grave didn’t hold her husband, just the container he had come in. He still lived inside her and he always would.

  She arranged for some men to come over and cart the boxes and bags away and after they were done she fell into a dreamless sleep. When she awoke early that afternoon, she called Greg Kane.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  When Greg Kane opened his eyes he found himself standing inside the entrance to Tommy’s Bar. Kane turned toward their customary table and saw his brother, smiling and raising a beer in a friendly toast.

  “Hi, Tommy,” Greg said, suddenly finding himself in his usual chair
with no memory of crossing the intervening space.

  “Hi, yourself. You got Jason’s killer,” Tommy said. Kane found himself beginning to smile but stopped when Tommy added, “Why is he still alive?”

  “What do you mean?” Greg asked though he knew exactly what his brother was getting at.

  “You could have shot him in that motel room. Those city cops would have backed you up one-hundred percent. So, why didn’t you?”

  “I needed him alive to get the guy who hired him,” Kane replied almost apologetically.

  “Sure, if he was any other mope and you were any other cop, but he was the guy who murdered my son, your nephew. Why didn’t you kill him when you had the chance?”

  “I don’t know,” Kane answered, looking away.

  “Sure you do.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Greg shot back, his gaze fixing on Tommy’s face then shying away.

  “I asked you first. . . . Come on. You need to say it out loud.”

  “What do you want me to say? That I was afraid?”

  “You weren’t afraid. Say it.”

  “Fine, I was a pussy. I was weak.”

  “That’s another lie. Haven’t you learned by now that you can’t lie to me? Come on, say it!”

  “Because I’m not a murderer,” Kane answered softly, still looking away.

  “Now you’re talking like a damn lawyer. He killed a cop, your blood. That’s a capital crime. The penalty for that is death. Shooting him wouldn’t have been murder. It would have been justified. What was the matter with you? Didn’t you want to make him suffer? Weren’t you angry?”

  “I–” Kane began then stopped. He thought about Farber, about how much he hated him, but that hate was now a memory that had lost its sting, like a photo of an old tragedy or the echo of a voice long since stilled. Without his noticing, somehow the fire inside him had begun to flicker out. “No,” Greg said at last.

  “You’re not? Then how do you feel?”

  Kane thought about that for a moment then answered, “I feel free.”

  “It took you long enough,” Tommy said and waved Sadie over for another round.

  Greg followed her path and noticed a new face at the table next to the door, a little girl, nine or ten years old, in a pink dress with pink tennis shoes.

  “What’s she doing here?” Kane asked. Tommy followed Greg’s gaze.

  “She’s here for you,” Tommy said.

  The little girl caught Kane’s eye and waved.

  “What do you mean, ‘She’s here for me?’ Kids shouldn’t be in a bar. Where are her parents? Who is she?”

  “You know who she is.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Go over and ask her.”

  Greg stared at the child for a long heartbeat then struggled out of his chair.

  “You hang in there, Greg,” Tommy said. “Just remember what I told you and you’ll be fine.” Tommy raised his bottle in a toast, smiled, then shimmered and disappeared.

  Kane gawked at the empty chair then turned toward the little girl. Lyla smiled and waved at him but when Kane tried to take a step his feet were stuck to the floor. He strained and managed to pull one free. Lyla’s mouth was moving but Kane couldn’t make out the words. He staggered forward another step then she waved one last time, said something else he couldn’t hear, and then everything disappeared.

  Kane awoke like a drowning man gasping for air. It was gone, all of it, Tommy’s bar, Sadie, Big Jesse, Little Jesse, Denny and Phil, Tommy and the little girl, all vanished too soon. Kane felt as if something beautiful had been irretrievably lost, as if he had started some vital work but had been thwarted with important business still left undone.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Around four a.m. Kane finally slipped into a fitful sleep but then woke up again at half past five and gave it up. He arrived at his office about an hour later and tried to catch up with his paperwork but the dream nagged at him like a half forgotten song. Half the time he wondered what Lyla had been trying to tell him and the other half he thought that it all had been merely the product of his wounded brain finally starting to recover and that these hallucinations with Tommy were merely the new Gregory Kane trying to heal the old one. But then the expression on Lyla’s face and her little wave would overwhelm him and he would worry at the dream’s meaning all over again. Eventually, in the war between emotion and logic, emotion won out.

  Danny had returned to work on restricted duty and when he appeared at about half past eight he found Kane waiting for him.

  “You’re in early,” Danny said. Kane waved his partner over to his desk.

  “I’m taking a few days off,” Kane said and handed Danny a bureau form. “Do me a favor and give this to Immerson for me.” Danny saw the words, “Request for Paid Time Off” at the top of the sheet. “I’ll only be gone for a few days. I just need to clear my head,” Kane said in answer to Danny’s unasked question.

  “Uhh, sure thing Agent Kane. Is there anything you want me to handle while you’re away?”

  “Sit down,” Kane ordered and Danny quickly pulled up a chair. “I don’t want to be bothered, no calls, nothing. I’m going to turn off my phone so don’t get upset if you can’t reach me.”

  “But what if there’s an emergency?”

  “I’ll check my voice mail and text messages every night. If it’s important enough I’ll call you back and if not, it can wait.” Danny stared while he struggled to work through all the scenarios of things that might go wrong. “OK,” Greg relented, “here’s the name of my hotel.” Kane handed him another sheet. “Do not give this to anyone, especially Immerson. I’m trusting you to keep this to yourself. If there’s an emergency and I don’t return your message you can call me at the hotel. OK?”

  “You got it, Agent Kane.” Danny looked at the address on the printout. “Symington, California? I’ve never heard of it. What are you going to do there?”

  If Kane actually understood what he expected to accomplish he would have said nothing but he was acting on instinct now with no plan or logic involved. The chances were good that if Greg had owned a dog or cat he would have described his plans to it in the hope that his scheme might make more sense when spoken aloud. Hell, he probably would have explained himself to a talking parking meter if that was his only option but Danny was there so Kane told him instead.

  “I know that doesn’t make any sense but it’s something I feel like I need to do,” an embarrassed Kane admitted when he was finished.

  “Oh, no, Agent Kane. I think it all makes total sense.”

  Maybe you should explain it to me, Kane thought and smiled.

  “Well, anyway, I’ll be back on Monday, Tuesday at the latest, and don’t give anyone that phone number.”

  “Sure thing, Agent Kane. You can rely on me.”

  “I know I can, Danny. And from now on, forget that ‘Agent Kane’ stuff. Call me ‘Greg.’” Kane glanced at the clock and hurried to his feet. “I’ve got to get out of here before the boss shows up and tells me that I can’t go.”

  “Have a good trip, Agent – Greg,” Danny called after him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  “I’m sorry, Agent Kane is out of the office. He’s expected to return early next week. Would you like to leave a message?”

  Allison’s first call to Kane had immediately gone to voice mail and now this. What was his partner’s name? Roswell? Rosewell? Rosewood.

  “Can I speak to his partner, Daniel Rosewood?”

  “Hello,” Danny answered a minute later.

  “Umm, Danny, this is Allison Varner, Senator Denning’s niece. I saw you at the hospital. Do you remember? I was in the corridor with your fiancé. You waved to me.”

  “You’re Agent . . . Greg’s friend. Diane told me that she talked with you. How I can I help you?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach Greg but his phone just goes to voice mail. Do you have another number for him?”

  “He’s on a break for
a few days. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “I understand but I really need to talk to him.”

  “Have you left him a message?”

  “I, umm, it’s not the sort of thing I want to talk about in a voice mail. I need to speak to him directly.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry Ms. Varner. I’m under strict instructions not to give out the phone number of his hotel. I gave Agent Kane my word not to give it to anyone, not even our boss, but if you left him a message I bet he would call you back.”

  “Thank you, Danny. I’ll work it out.” She hung up.

  Now what? It had been so difficult to even make the call and now it was all for nothing. She stood at the window and looked out at the lengthening shadows then wandered from room to room. The apartment seemed different now, bigger, emptier. She picked up the phone then put it back down. She tried to imagine what she would have said if she had succeeded in getting Kane on the line. Hi, how are you? How have you been? Would you like to have dinner when you get back? Maybe we could have a drink?

  Allison thought back to the first time they had been together. How odd it seemed, as if the Allison now and the Allison then were two different people. She picked up the phone and managed to catch Danny Rosewood before he went home.

  “Danny, it’s Allison again. I know that you can’t give me Greg’s number but can you tell me where he went? It’s very important.”

  What was it that Agent Kane had said? Don’t give anyone the hotel’s phone number. Of course that meant that he couldn’t tell anyone the hotel’s name either. But Greg hadn’t said he couldn’t tell people where he was going.

  “He went to Symington, California,” Danny answered.

  “Symington, California? I’ve never heard of it. What’s he doing there?”