by Cat Connor
Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night
Mac lifted his head, his hazel eyes meeting mine with the determination of a man searching for an out.
“Why?”
“Because we are required to attend.” I tugged my tee shirt free from my waistband, letting it hang over my jeans. The early evening was warm, bordering on muggy. I felt hot and tired, and my mood teetered on the edge of nervously peeved and ornery bitch. I pulled the tie from my hair and shook my head, ran my fingers through the length of my hair and massaged my head with my fingertips. Even my scalp felt irritated.
Irritated was the new happy.
I could still smell the dead guy, even after showering at work and changing into clean clothes. The clothes I’d worn all day were in the garbage. I felt like I needed to shower again.
He shuffled papers across his desk, without looking up at me. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“I know.” I steeled myself for the string of excuses that seemed ready to fall.
“Do we really have to?” he implored, looking up at me through the dark hair that fell over his eyes.
“Yes, we really do,” I replied, weary beyond belief.
“You know I hate this …”
“Yes … I know you hate this.”
I remembered exactly what I was doing the day the publisher rang to tell me our book made the New York Times bestseller list. I dropped one of the crystal glasses I was washing and it smashed in the kitchen sink. I never dreamt the book would sit at number three for two months and I still hadn’t found a replacement glass.
We have to do this.
FBI agents who write poetry: we were big news, especially after the Son of Shakespeare case and the whole world found out about the sucky little poems he left for me, artistically stuck to dead bodies. Personally, I think people only bought the book to check out my warped mind. I hoped they were disappointed but sales indicated they weren’t. I think I’m fairly twisted. Finding parts of people in your car and bath tub and hanging from the ceiling will do that to a person.
“Who’ll be there?”
The answer rambled in my head: about two hundred people we’ve never met; half the FBI; all our family; most of Mauryville. Mauryville is the small town I’d lived in before moving north to be with Mac.
“People.” I crossed my fingers and hoped my next comment sounded convincing. “It’s a dinner function, so probably not many.” I was trying hard to make it sound like a small intimate gathering, the sort that wouldn’t require a microphone.
Mac’s eyes met mine. “You’re a terrible liar, Ellie.”
He passed me a pile of papers. Flipping through them, I realized they all said similar things: ‘Congratulations. See you at the dinner.’
“There’s even one from that friend of Simon’s and dad’s, GW.”
“So is it that GW?”
“I think so. Look at this.” He handed me the email. I glanced over the contents and noted the Secret Service brief at the bottom.
Just when I thought I’d taken his mind off things, he snapped at me, “I cannot speak in front of people … with a microphone in my face.” Mac’s eyes shifted back to the paperwork on his desk. A thin scar from a knife fight ran along the side of his face, almost obscured by his hair. A scar on the bridge of his nose, from a maniac with a baseball bat a few months ago, was still pink. A reminder that Mac wasn’t afraid of wading into trouble even when there was a real possibility of physical injury and yet, here he was about to bury himself in work rather than face a microphone. The Son of Shakespeare had really screwed him up. I saw the little lost boy behind his eyes. Before I realized what had happened I found myself wanting to smack him good and hard upside the head and tell him to get over it.
“I don’t want to do this either.” That was the truest thing I’d said all afternoon. You do what you have to do.
He looked up. “Then let’s not; let’s turn off the phone, lock the door and stay home.”
That’s not going to happen. “Barring our deaths, we have to attend.”
“Don’t tempt me like that.”
“Mac, we’re going, everything is going to be fine.” It was a white lie for a good cause.
He shook his head. “No, it will be dreadful … I will make an ass of myself.” He sighed a long, theatrical sigh. “And it will be embarrassing as hell.”
Speculating that it might well be, I injected a smile into my voice and said, “First, let’s just get there and do the mix and mingle thing, sign a few books, have dinner … I’ll read a few poems, you feign illness and we’ll leave.”
I kept my fingers crossed that what I was actually thinking wouldn’t pop out of my mouth: Suck it up, princess!
There are worse things in life than speaking into a microphone in front of a crowd of people. I couldn’t think of any, offhand, but I knew there were worse things.
Then it dawned on me, the smell of the dead guy was worse. I wanted to scream, ‘I shot someone today.’ But I sucked it up and moved on. There was no sense in letting that scumbag ruin my night, not with Mac so keen on doing the same.
“Oh, I won’t be faking the illness and remember, you’re a sympathetic vomiter.”
It took vast amounts of willpower to hold myself in check. I knew he had a genuine phobia of microphones but, man, he was standing on my last nerve.
Mac must’ve realized how close I was to biting off his head. He smiled suddenly and asked, “Afterwards, can we string up your brother and that no-good-best-friend of yours for publishing this fuc’n thing?”
“Good – progress! At least you’re coming with me now.” I grinned. “Stringing up my brother sounds like a plan.”
Mac’s eyes were on me and I seriously considered making a call to Caine to have Mac escorted. I sensed his intention to back out at the last minute.
“What time does this fresh hell kick off?”
“A car will pick us up at seven-thirty.”
“A car,” he said, barely above a whisper. “They’re sending a car?”
“Yeah.”
Mac frowned as he read something on the computer monitor. It made me uneasy seeing his brow crease like that. My reaction was a hangover from the past, which didn’t help allay the feeling of foreboding. Experience told me this particular expression usually foretold an exclamation of horror, followed by a dead body.
I swallowed hard. I knew it would take some getting over. I told myself that the killer sits on death row, that Mac was simply frowning. The Son of Shakespeare was a memory and not my reality anymore. Unfortunately the memory of him lay intertwined with our poetry book; I doubted I’d ever escape that. My idiot brother, Aidan, had compiled the book during that case and it contained the first poem Mac ever wrote for me, the one the Son of Shakespeare stole and used.
No wonder I had a killer on my mind.
Our front doorbell buzzed. I started to walk in the direction of the hallway when Mac leapt over his desk to head me off. My hand shot out and fingers wrapped themselves in his shirt as he attempted to pass. He came to an abrupt stop.
“I’m not letting you out that door,” I said, twisting the fabric in my hand.
“I’m just answering it,” he said indignantly, attempting to brush my hand away.
And I came down in the last rain shower.
“You arranged this,” I accused.
“I did not,” he scoffed.
The person who’d been ringing the doorbell began knocking loudly. I reached the door one step in front of Mac.
“Let me,” I insisted, reaching out and twisting the door handle. With a sharp pull the door swung open.
Eddie almost fell into the hallway.
I was somewhat surprised to see Mac’s older brother: lifelong tormentor and now something new. Savior?
“Mac, I’ve got a …” Eddie started then wisely stopped.
“… very small brain?” I offered.
He scowled as he processed my comment, which didn’t improve his looks. It took nearly a minute
before he spoke again. “No, it’s mom. She wants Mac.”
I smiled. “Of course she does. Funny that she hasn’t called. Usually there are upwards of six calls a day.”
Eddie floundered; his mouth flapped.
“On your way, Eddie. We have a prior engagement.”
I closed the door. Mac leaned back on the hall wall. He had the good grace to look sheepish.
“I have no words!” I said, shaking my head.
“I bet you find some,” he replied.
“You think now is the best time to get mouthy?”
The corners of his mouth turned up. “No, ma’am.”
“That’s what I thought. We should get ready.”
I couldn’t imagine Mac asking Eddie to save him. It defied reason. He held an intense dislike for his older brother.
Mac grinned. “After you.”
“I don’t think so.”
I took his hand and we walked together into the living room.
I knew about his nervousness. I understood how badly he was affected by the knowledge that complete strangers had heard him rambling over a surveillance audio link about rainbow people, when he’d been doped, but this was a different situation. Glancing at the clock on the wall told me we had two hours before the car arrived.
I knew I would regret my words but it didn’t stop me; it never stops me. “You could do with a Valium.” Or a bottle of bourbon, or maybe both. Okay, bourbon was a bad idea; it is too easy to sniff it out on someone’s breath. Maybe vodka. My sense of professionalism took over: even in my worst moments I would not turn up to such an event plastered. We’d survived a hellish year. Taking the edge off tonight with a little yellow pill sounded good.
His arms tightened around me. “Valium?”
“Yep.”
“Where did you get Valium?”
I replied, “The doctor last week.”
“Are you okay?”
Of course, I’m okay! I’m always okay.
“Yes, I am okay.”
“Then what’s with the creepy smile?”
“What’s with the close, suffocating observations?” Instantly, I regretted being so sharp.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” I really was sorry. “I was just thinking about Aidan and the whole fundraising thing tonight at The Aquarium.”
“You were planning his demise!” Mac accused with amusement.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe’s ass.”
“He swam with the fishes,” I said, without even trying to hide the satisfied smile on my face. The subject had successfully moved away from Valium.
Mac steered it back. “Does this have anything to do with those nightmares?”
I smiled and kissed him. “I’m okay.”
I was okay, just so long as no more bodies turned up near me and I didn’t think too much and no one ever publishes anything of mine ever again.
“Does it?”
“I’ve mentioned them, therefore I guess it does.” Nightmares. Flashbacks. It’s all semantics and hardly worth quibbling over. I didn’t believe that for a second but I tried. If I tried harder, it might even be plausible. I looked at the clock again. “We have to get ready.”
Chapter Three
Bad Medicine
I stood in front of the bedroom mirror fussing with my hair.
“Did you get a call today from dad?” Mac asked from the bathroom.
Both our fathers were heavily involved in our Butterfly Foundation project. They both retired over ten years ago and had volunteered to take over the brunt of the day-to-day work created by the Foundation’s existence.
I’d spent the last few years telling myself that one day I’d have more time. One day there will be fewer freaks to track down. One day I will be able to let the FBI go. Yeah, right! One day pigs will fly. So for now, our fathers take care of business and we take care of criminals.
“Mine or yours?”
“Mine.”
Mac’s dad, Bob, had called me that morning while I was in the office. We had discussed the upcoming board appointments. I nodded. “Bob told me he wants my dad to take the chairman of the board position.”
“Will the announcements be made tonight?”
“Yes. During dinner, the chairman will be announced, and so will the trustees.” Guess he now had a reminder about the speeches. Something outside caught my eye. I moved to the window. On the balcony railing sat a large Monarch butterfly. So very beautiful.
Mac had a reminder for me, too. “Tomorrow you and I are flicking the proverbial switch, the server is up and running. The Foundation goes online officially at midday.”
The Monarch fluttered its orange wings then soared skyward. I watched until it was gone from view. We had a vision and that vision now had life. No matter how much I hated having our poetry published, the proceeds from sales had made possible the Foundation that supported the kids of bipolar and schizophrenic parents. Okay, not entirely; I’d used my trust fund money, which had been sitting in the bank since I was eighteen, the insurance money left to me when mom was murdered, as well as half the insurance money from when my house burned to the ground.
Oh, the life I lead.
All in all, life was good. We were making a difference. Even if it wasn’t a huge difference, at least some kids had a safe place to talk and get support. Inside the Foundation server, sanctuary was provided by moderators and counselors.
Our mission statement rang in my ears from an internal looped recording: ‘To provide security and a safe place for the children touched by bipolar disorder, dissociative identity disorder and schizophrenia.’
Mac whispered in my ear, “Earth to Ellie, we best get into our monkey suits, sweets.”
“Yeah … and take a chill pill.” Five milligrams of calm coming right up. I swear I felt it doing me good well before I’d swallowed it.
He kissed my cheek. “Yeah, let’s do that first. Let’s turn up loaded to a function full of FBI and the media.”
“Exaggerate much?” Under my breath I growled, “I won’t be loaded and you could do with chilling, dude.”
A little while later and in a better mood, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror surveying the dress I wore. Mac came up behind me in his black suit, wearing a platinum shirt that matched the platinum silk of my dress. We looked fantastic.
I stepped back and felt my shoe catch on Mac’s. His arm snaked around my waist to steady me. A hundred memories collided all at once and, for a split second, I was back in a car park in Lexington viewing the first body left by the killer known as Jack Griffin.
***
I slipped out the door unseen and quietly edged my way between two police officers. We all stared into the trunk. My eyes struggled to comprehend what I saw.
My brain stuttered. “What the fuck is that?”
“I’m not sure,” Doug replied. “It’s hard to tell.”
There was a mass of flesh and fabric, no obvious beginning or distinguishable end. It didn’t resemble anything in particular. I glimpsed a flash of something silvery.
“Gloves? Flashlight?”
Alex handed me a pair of latex gloves. He took a flashlight from his belt. I carefully lifted a piece of bloodied fabric and revealed what I figured was an arm. “Shine it here for me.”
Alex directed the beam of light over my shoulder.
“Looks like a bracelet,” Doug commented. He was right. Not only that, it looked familiar.
I leaned in and read the inscription.
“Oh, man.” I gulped for air. My legs threatened to buckle. I staggered slightly as I turned away. I managed to unload the meager contents of my stomach by the back wheel, preserving the integrity of the crime scene as much as possible. Someone pulled my hair back and had hold of my shoulders. A tissue magically appeared in my hand as I straightened up.
“Thank you,” I spluttered, wiping my mouth.
“You’re welcome.” Alex’s voice so
unded just as smooth as Doug’s. “Go on back inside. Do you want me to call someone for you?”
“Give the forensics team a hurry-along.” I was facing the café and sure as hell was not going to look back at the car. I pulled my wallet from my pocket and handed over my card, “My number is on here, ask for SAC Grafton.” I took a breath. “Tell him … we found Carter.”
Alex frowned at me. “He’ll know what that means?”
“If he asks, tell him he’s in the trunk of my car.”
***
Suddenly a night of fund raising and celebrities didn’t seem so bad after all. It was a relief to get into the limousine.
Chapter Four
Ordinary People
The evening could have been worse. There were no dismembered bodies and no Post-it note poems. I was not covered in blood nor was anyone else.
Mac smiled at my surprise in having enjoyed the evening.
“I’m going to change out of this,” I said, sweeping my hand down my body.
His eyes followed my hand.
“You’re sure we shouldn’t make some babies? They’d be damn cute!”
I could see the laughter in his eyes as I replied, “Cute they would be, insane most certainly. You know our gene pool needs cleansing, babe.”
I fervently hoped the laughter in his eyes wasn’t masking something deeper; an actual desire for children. Breeding from our combined genetic line was not a great idea. On the grand scale of ideas, it ranked right up there with bamboo shoots under fingernails or a stint in Guantanamo Bay.
Mac turned me to face him, kissed me, and said, “You’re sure?” The smile in his eyes faded.
A sinking feeling hit me. I couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. Suddenly it didn’t look or feel like a joke. Damn. We’d agreed a year ago that having kids would be a bad idea.
We had agreed.
I didn’t want to have that conversation again. Ever.
“I’m sure.” I changed the subject. “Make some coffee, will you? I’m going to change.”
Wearing the more comfortable attire of jeans and a tee shirt, I settled on the sofa with my laptop and checked my email.
We had fulfilled our duty to the publisher and the kids. It was almost fun playing dress-up and grown-up. Even so, I was relieved to be back at home and away from all those pretty people, most of whom lived far from the reality I saw every day.