I stand up fast, surprising everyone in the room. Chaz stops reading midsentence. I reach for my coat through the blur of my sharp tears. Maureen might have divulged our secret, but Chaz’s betrayal leaves me breathless and stung, as though he’s backhanded me hard across the face. I storm out as Chaz follows.
“Luce, please. If not for you, then me.”
I turn back to him on the doorstep of the building. “I won’t go through this again.”
By the time I reach the car, my body shakes with something I can’t quite name. My feelings swirl in a strange concoction. My breath now comes fast and shallow, on the verge of hyperventilation. I feel the heat of my pulse in my cheeks as hot, angry tears slip down them. From the glove compartment comes the chime of the emergency cell phone Davis gave me, the direct link to him that the station uses for drug busts and undercover operations.
“Yeah?” I try to hide the sound of my tears.
“Get over here, fast.”
Chaz has been watching me from the sidewalk, most likely thinking I would change my mind. When I pull out of my parking spot, he charges toward the car, waving his arms at me to stop. I pull out on the main road and hit the gas, watching him slowly vanish in the rearview mirror until there is nothing left to see.
By the time I pull into the McDonald’s parking lot, my breath has steadied. I line my car door up with the body door of an old box-style van from the ’80s. It’s such a dark maroon that it looks black in the darkness. Once inside the old junker, I throw my car keys against the wall of the van, tear off my clothes down to my bra, and rip the taped wires from my skin.
“You heard it all, right?” I slam the cables against the surveillance box sitting on the floor. “God damn it! I should have expected this. I knew they let me in way too easy.”
My body releases waves of heat with pulsing anxiety. It’s Davis’s steady cool hand on my shoulder that halts my frantic movement. “You okay?” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. Ainsley sits on the bench near the rear of the van, quietly collecting all the recording equipment.
I collapse onto the bench and run my fingers through my hair, tying and retying my ponytail, my knees bouncing a mile a minute. “All for nothing!”
The seats have been removed from the back of the van. Only one long wooden bench lines the left side, while all the equipment rests on a makeshift table. Davis sits down beside me. “We’ll destroy the recording. I promise.”
Ainsley takes the microphone equipment that I’ve thrown on the table and winds it up. “Interventions can be brutal,” he says, still not looking at me. I pull my T-shirt back on, then the sweater.
“Luce, these people went to an awful lot of trouble to point out this problem in your life,” Ainsley says. “Was the timing correct? No, but don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.”
Both Davis and I look at him incredulously.
“I’m just saying that God has a way of working on His time, not ours. Maybe you should consider what these folks had to say. Take it to heart, you know?”
“Shut the fuck up, Ainsley.” I drop my head into my hands, as if to rub away his words.
“I’m a volunteer with this group and I know they speak the truth. Don’t let the fact that you had a bad experience with the One True Path organization derail your path to heaven.”
“Bad experience?” I yell at him. “It was a whole lot worse than a bad experience.” I stand up, my body swelling before him. “I suppose you believe Marci deserved to die that day, huh?” When Ainsley stands, I’m up in his face faster than he can blink. He takes a step back. “What about me, Ainsley? Should I have died that day, too?”
Davis attempts to pull us apart, the three of us clumped together like a ball of yarn in the tiny space of the van.
Once Ainsley says, “You said it, not me,” there’s no stopping my fists. They come at Ainsley, an onslaught of anger and pain that pound away at his chest, his belly, his shoulders. A scream erupts from deep within my own core.
Somehow Davis pries us apart and manages to push Ainsley out of the side door. He grabs the car keys from my unmarked vehicle and tosses them out to Ainsley, who’s flushed bright red and still hollering about how I hit him. “Go home,” Davis demands. “I’ll get this equipment back to the station. Go on. Now.”
Davis and I wait for Ainsley to pull off before he slams the door closed and I collapse onto the bench. It’s like a dam breaks somewhere inside me, a fissure that I never knew existed that erupts into painful sobs. Davis stands there a few seconds watching me cry, telling me to take a deep breath, and clearly confused about what exactly to do. “How about some coffee?” he asks, settling on what all cops seem to love and understand. He steps out and heads for the McDonald’s counter, leaving me alone to collect myself.
Its times like these, when the tears don’t seem to have an ending and all the hidden wounds inside me make themselves known, that I worry I may shatter. It’s not as if my body is weak or too badly worn, but it’s more about the eruption that threatens to expel itself from my core. These emotions are so big and these memories are so powerful, nothing can stop them once they get started. When I was younger I used to explain to others that I couldn’t cry or else I would never stop. It’s like a volcano—it can’t half erupt. Which is why I’m shocked when after twenty minutes or so I’ve managed to stop crying and get my breath back to some semblance of normal.
Eventually, Davis returns with two large piping-hot coffees and a bag of ice. He’s spent too long inside the store in an attempt to give me some room. I appreciate that about him, this thoughtfulness. “For your swinging hand,” he says.
“I’m sorry.” I sip the strong black coffee.
Davis waves my apology off. “It’s never fun when work and personal life mix. All I know is that I would never have been able to walk into that ministry if I was in your shoes. That took guts, Agent. Real guts.”
We sit beside one another in the cold silence and sip coffee to warm up. The freezing ice wrap on my hand doesn’t help. Davis offers a faint smile.
“My first job was on traffic outside of Cincinnati,” Davis says. “I wanted nothing more than to make detective. My ex did everything she could to make sure that didn’t happen.” Headlights stream across his face. In the dim overhead light his skin looks ashen and worn.
“She a cop?” I wonder briefly if this is the woman who the missing wedding ring from Davis’s finger belongs to.
“Worse. Dispatch.”
“That is worse.”
“That woman sent me on more wild-goose chases.” He chuckles with me. “One time she sent me all the way across town for a possible gunshot at a nunnery at three a.m. Catholic or not, those ladies wanted to take my head off.”
“I can see why you moved on to Willow’s Ridge.” This moment alone with Davis reminds me how much I appreciate his patience and easygoing personality. He’s one of those distinct people who are generally quiet but always heard.
“We’re a rare breed, us cops. So hard to get to know. We’re prickly one minute and overflowing with generosity the next. I haven’t met many cops who aren’t moody as hell.” He takes a drink of coffee. I notice for the first time that the cold makes his lips purple against his skin. “Ainsley means well, Hansen. He’s just got some of the worst timing I’ve seen in my whole career.”
My feelings for Ainsley are so jumbled, like a tangled knot in an electrical cord. I understand Ainsley’s behavior, yes, but do I condone it? No way.
“We do have something, though.”
I look up. “Sambino talked?”
“Not Sambino. The guys back at the station located a match for the second Klosenova photo. Confirmation came in thirty minutes ago.”
“Who is she? Where?”
“Victim number two is Magda Rose Teru, found on March 22, 1999, in Carbon County, Wyoming. There was some delay about the reporting of the body because the men who found her had been illegally shooting deer in a preserve set up by the state.
They were afraid they’d be arrested.”
The police had faxed over a crime-scene photo of Magda Rose that shows her naked body propped up against a tree stump with a large cross whittled into the wood above her head.
“No victims to match Klosenova’s numbers six and seven?”
“They’re still searching, but nothing so far. We’re flying in the lead investigator from the Teru case to help with our investigation. He’ll be here in a few hours. He’s landing in Columbus at the crack of dawn.”
“In medias res.” Davis looks at me like he’s never heard the phrase before. “It means in the middle of something,” I explain. “We’ve caught our guy in the middle of whatever the hell he’s trying to do.”
Davis crushes his empty coffee cup in his fist. “You realize what this means, Luce? Not only in medias or whatever you said, but we got a transnational case now.”
I’d already thought of it. Separate states means that by law the FBI must be involved. Federal agents will be on the way to Willow’s Ridge to take over the case. Soon I’ll be excused and dispatched back to Columbus to await my next assignment.
I crush my own empty coffee cup. “I won’t go until this ends for good.”
Davis looks out the square side window at the cars scattered across the McDonald’s parking lot. There’s sadness in his eyes, but also sheer determination. He’s not letting go either.
Chapter Nineteen
White. Blinding white. That’s the only way to describe the hotel bathroom. Everything’s aglow—the tile floor, the enormous tub, the sink and counters. Rowan’s attributed this overlighting issue to the three full-throttle wattage bulbs and has removed two of them. For once, I’m in the bathroom without squinting against the light’s assault. The glow of the single bulb softly filters all around Rowan as she sits with her back to me on the edge of the tub in an oversized Indigo Girls T-shirt. The steaming water tumbles over her bare feet. She’s uncapped a vial of lavender oil and dribbles a few drops into the mix of the water. The bathroom explodes with the smell of calm and my exhausted body immediately responds; my shoulders, which have been locked up near my ears most of the week, finally release. I sit on the bathroom counter, still in my standard black clothing from work, and listen to the water pound over itself in rushing swirls. I can’t take my eyes off Rowan. The light shadows her slim neck and long hair into a beautiful portrait. Wild sienna-brown curls, growing fuller every second with the humidity of the bathroom, spill all around her back. I could sit here and take in the view for days.
“I was worried you might work through the night,” Rowan says to me over her shoulder.
“I thought we would, but Davis sent us for a few hours of sleep. We can’t do much until the detective from Wyoming gets here.” I don’t tell Rowan that I argued with Davis to stay and continue to run searches to match putative victims six and seven. He pointed to the dark circles under my eyes and insisted I get some rest. Although he worries about his team’s health, I’m certain he’s still at the station running those searches. He’ll get no sleep tonight. These are the facts that the public never sees, the long, grueling hours, the endless searches police conduct that reveal nothing.
Rowan stands in the tub, the waterline just above her winter-pale knees. She shuts the water off and slowly slips out of the T-shirt. With a shy smile and the quick flush of her cheeks, she twists her nude body to the side. Generally the bolder of the two of us, Rowan’s sudden display of modesty touches my heart. I guess this case has thrown both of us off kilter in one way or another.
“Hot! Hot, but good.” She squats and pulls her knees into her chest, nearly hidden in the drifting steam. “Coming in?”
Kicking out of my pants, I let all clothing fall to the ground with a shiver. Even though the bathroom is warm and moist, the frigid night remains on my skin. I rub my palms up and down over my naked arms. The skin’s dry and cracked in places, my body tired and weather worn and drained from this godforsaken case. Standing before Rowan without the safety of my clothes, I feel transparent, fully exposed. Tonight has stripped all my layers away. My emotions have run the gamut, and the past I’ve been outrunning since 1989 has finally caught up to me. I’m beaten raw.
The bathwater is so hot it shocks me at first, steals my breath. Everything within my body pulls tight and then gradually releases. I inch down into the water and settle myself between Rowan’s widespread legs, my back flush against her chest and inside the wrap of her arms. The soapy water stings my chapped skin as it works its way into the raw crevices of me—a salve of sorts. My muscles soon release and welcome the comfort of bubbles.
“Relax now.” Rowan drops her chin to the top of my head, her chest rhythmically rising and falling against my back with her deep breaths.
We rest this way, entangled in each other, for a long, silent spell until my entire body softens into this life raft of her. Balancing somewhere beautiful between wake and sleep, I understand that this is what Rowan ultimately is to me—a refuge. My sanctuary. Inside this spread of Rowan, this comfort of her, I feel safer than I have in months.
Eventually Rowan leans forward and reaches for a bathing sponge she found in the hotel’s guest packet. She lets it get so wet it pours water from its holes, then rubs my back with the soapy sponge. She uses her hands to massage my shoulders, her fingertips reaching deep inside my stubborn, stiff muscles, using her strong yet soothing instruments that calm.
Rowan’s hands are nothing remarkable to look at, really, just average sized with the nails neatly squared off. Most days there are remnants of paint and chalk under her nails. Once a week she uses a brush to dig all the colors out and wash them away. It’s the feel of her hands that’s so amazing, a tremendous strength that’s so capable and reassuring—I’d put myself in the care of those hands anytime. Sometimes when she massages my shoulders after a long day, I think about those hands and how she uses them to communicate with the world through her art. Rowan’s hands are the medium through which she puts out art and takes it in. She jokes that someday all her veins will puff out and rope around her knuckles and wrists like her mother’s, but for now the pale skin’s smooth and flawless. It’s the touch, her touch, that turns me into Jell-O.
“The oils will help your dry skin,” she explains and dunks the sponge over and over again, cascading the bathwater over my shoulders, my spine, my neck. Rowan and I have never taken a bath together, and while we’ve showered and lathered each other up many a time before, there is something much more sensual about Rowan’s touch now. It’s a version of tenderness I’ve not felt from her in quite some time. Or is it that I’ve never noticed? I don’t always want to acknowledge the intensity of her feelings because it terrifies me that I can’t, or won’t, return them. Now, though, I feel as if I could melt inside her arms, release everything to her and the hollow hush of the water. We’ve found a safe spot, Rowan and I, in the midst of murder and hate and a town I wanted never to return to again. We’ve found our hideout, our own Stonehenge.
“You learned about the oils in India.” Meant to be a question, the words come out much more like a statement. “Do you ever miss it?”
Rowan nods against my shoulder. “It’s the smallest things that I miss the most.”
Rowan spent two years studying yoga in an Indian ashram long before I met her. She’d steeped herself in meditation, yoga, and Hinduism in an attempt to find her own version of spirituality. She came away from that experience a Buddhist and refers to her time in India as recovery from her Catholic-school training. Her parents had been devout Catholics and Rowan was taught by nuns and priests until she went to college. Spirituality is a huge part of Rowan’s life, but one she’s never imposed on me. Sometimes I watch her through the cracked-open doorway deep within her morning meditation. The strangely beautiful guttural chants and the gentle long pulls of breath lift her chest, and I consider her practice with pure amazement and a stab of jealousy. I’d give anything to feel those quiet moments of solace and comfort.
It’s been a long time since I’ve listened to Rowan talk about India. While she’s still an avid yogini and sometimes still dresses in the colorful saris, I shy away from all those painful-looking poses and odd sounds. Rowan claims the calm and deliberate movements help her creativity flow. Creativity flow or not, I have to admit the oil smells fantastic and my muscles agree.
“You do know oils aren’t only used by people who practice yoga, right?” She nudges me with her shoulder. “I bet you didn’t know there’s a lavender farm right outside Willow’s Ridge.”
“What the hell’s a lavender farm?”
Rowan bursts out in laughter. “A farm filled with lavender plants! Lilly’s Lavender is so beautiful. It has this cute little shop that I went to today.”
“Lilly’s Lavender? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Rowan ignores my sarcasm. “You wouldn’t believe this shop. She even has lavender mixed into paper products for stationery.”
“You bought some”—I squeeze her knee inside my hand—“didn’t you.”
Rowan sheepishly admits she did buy the fully recycled paper. “And the oil we’re bathing in.”
I roll my eyes. “What about your show?” I ask. I am afraid to ask the more direct question: What made you come back?
Rowan squeezes the sponge over my left shoulder. “I talked the owner into giving me another month. One of the artists was able to move up to my slot. It all worked out.”
“I’m sorry, Rowan.”
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