I lifted the glass to my lips and my cell buzzed.
I let Mansfield in and we went to the kitchen. The glass was still sitting on the table, untouched. She shot me a look and poured it all down the sink. Told me to go shower. When I got back she’d made coffee.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Much,” I said, taking a seat. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
She gave a grunt. “I don’t sleep much when I’m working a case.”
We sat quietly. All of a sudden I was tired.
“Did you grow up in Omaha?” I said.
“It’s late, Thomas.”
“Just making conversation.”
“It’s been three days now. What have you got for me?”
“Jesus, do you ever relax?”
“I’ll relax when this is over.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
I glared at her over the top of my mug. She looked away. An icy silence.
“I was born on the West Coast,” she said. “Santa Cruz. Studied business in college to keep my father happy, moved to Omaha as soon as I was done to get away from him. Applied to join the FBI and flunked pretty much every entrance exam they gave me. Settled for a studio apartment and a place at the State Patrol Training Academy instead. Ten years later and here I am.”
She took a drink, shifted in her seat.
“Santa Cruz,” I said. “I went surfing there once.”
Mansfield sighed and looked away. “Is that Rachel?” she said.
I flinched a little. Her gaze must have fallen on the photograph on my windowsill. I couldn’t remember placing it there.
“You know about her?”
“Just what’s in your file.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize you had a file on me.”
“I have a file on everyone.”
I made a disapproving sound. Took a drink and a deep breath, suddenly wishing I’d had that glass of whiskey after all. “That’s Rachel,” I said.
Mansfield’s eyes lingered on the picture. “Pretty girl,” she said.
“Yes she was.”
I wondered about that file.
“Do you blame yourself for her death?” Her eyes on me.
“I blame myself for a lot of things.”
“That’s a copout of an answer.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Some people might say you did some good back in DC.”
“Some good?”
“Well, you did put a dirty cop away.”
“Dirty cop.” I shook my head. “I was a dirty cop too.”
“You think you should be in prison?”
I shrugged. “I’ve . . . done things.”
“I know.” Her tone was ice.
“Since I got here, I mean. Bad things.”
“Considering you only got here less than two weeks ago, that’s kind of impressive.”
I drained my coffee. “I really should get some sleep.”
“Oh don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That. Run away.”
“I’m tired.”
“Hey, you called me.”
I sighed heavily, pressed fingers into weary eyes.
“I get it, you know,” she said. “You’ve got guilt, deep down and riding around with you. Your captain sends you to Cooper for a fresh start and you think maybe you can complete your path of self-destruction. Get yourself tossed in a jail cell, or catch a bullet in the line of duty. Or maybe you just want to drink yourself to death. Spend three weeks rotting on your bed with your dead girlfriend’s photo until your neighbor investigates about the smell. And maybe that’s what you deserve.”
I lifted my head and stared at her.
“Now Morricone’s offered you something different,” she continued. “A reason to be here, a way to do some good. And the only thing stopping you from taking it is you. I have no time for self-pitying pricks who enjoy wallowing in their own filth when there’s a perfectly good alternative being waved in front of their face. You say you’ve done bad things? I can offer you immunity. But you either take the help that’s being offered, or you go and eat that bullet. I really don’t care which, I just wish you’d choose.”
I got to my feet. “That’s a great speech. Real inspiring stuff.”
“Thomas, did something happen last night?” she asked.
“Marchenko happened. Guy just about shot me in the head.”
Mansfield stared at me for a moment without speaking. Then she gingerly placed her mug on the table and stood up. “Did you record it?”
“Did you hear what I said? The only reason he didn’t pull the trigger was Joe.”
“So what, you owe him now or something?”
I gave a wry smile. “I actually don’t care anymore. I’m done. This place, everyone’s got an angle. Everyone wants something.”
“If you try and leave town, I’ll have you arrested. Don’t test me, Thomas.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about it. Just sliding behind the wheel of my Impala and driving that long road out of town. Maybe I’d head north, to the Pine Ridge. Watch Cooper dwindle in my rearview until it was gone forever. Mary sure had made it sound nice, and maybe there I could finally find some peace.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Once Mansfield had left, I slept.
When I woke I was facedown in my bed, the sheets tangled around me like we’d done battle, and outside it was dark. My stomach lurched with that nasty overslept feeling. I was warm, too warm; I’d sweated into my shirt. I wondered if I was coming down with a fever.
I sat up and fumbled for my cell. It was just after 5 p.m., which meant I’d slept for almost twelve hours straight. I groaned and got to my feet. My head was fuzzy, and my hands shook like I’d spent the day drinking. Guess sleep was just as potent. It all felt a little unfair.
I showered, and that helped. Took a couple of aspirin with water so cold I could feel it all the way down. Mansfield’s empty coffee mug was still on the kitchen table. I’d told her I was leaving, and I’d meant every word.
I packed light. Strapped my revolver to my chest. Slid my switchblade into my pocket. Spotted Rachel’s photo on the windowsill, and after a moment’s hesitation stuffed that in along with it. Propped my badge in its place.
There wasn’t anything else. I’d arrived with nothing and I was leaving with less.
The snow was almost gone; transformed into piles of dark sludge, its color drained. Even the air itself was wet; I could feel it brush against my skin, like a spider’s web.
I was on edge. Couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d screwed up. That I shouldn’t have gone back to sleep. That my window of escape had closed. A million scenarios turned over in my mind as I hurried to my car. The engine dying, maybe, a stone’s throw from the town limits. Or maybe a collision with another vehicle. A carjacking, a roadblock, an invisible barrier, a twist in the fabric of the universe and an infinite road that forever looped back to Cooper.
My Impala started on the first attempt. I patted the wheel affectionately. Breathed out and told myself to man up. I swung her around in a U-turn, flicked the heating up to full, and bombed down the quiet street.
It had been snowing in Cooper when I’d arrived. I remembered standing outside Kelly Scott’s front door waiting on Joe, staring at a row of houses that seemed to just vanish into the sky. It wasn’t quite as bad as that now, but it was going to be. It was going to be worse.
You’ll call me crazy for thinking it and that’s fine. Hell, I’d have called me crazy for thinking it, but that didn’t make it any less true: Cooper was going to be smothered from above. Shrouded in mist until everything was white and nothing was left. It was going to be wiped off the map, and all that mattered was what we did before it happened.
I found myself driving through Mary’s neighborhood on my way out of town. Hadn’t planned to, but there I was, just the same.
The place was deserted. Dirty sidewalks and board
ed-up windows. Birds pecking at scattered trash, pausing to stare with beady eyes as I crawled by. A couple of them stretched their wings out silently. An eeriness not helped by the steadily thickening mist.
I pulled in across the road from her apartment. Debated whether I should say goodbye. Something about wanting to apologize for what I’d said.
Mary was the only person I’d met here who hadn’t wanted something from me. The only person anywhere, in a long while. I’ll admit to never truly knowing what we had—a passing acquaintance maybe, or the beginnings of a friendship, or maybe even the start of something more—but she’d been straight with me. And I reckoned that deserved more than just slinking off into the night.
I could see her apartment from the car. The lights were off. I stared at the living-room window, hoping for the telltale glow of a television, but there was nothing.
I sat there for a while, just watching, and a sense of dread fell over me something fierce. I told myself she was probably working at Stingray’s, but that didn’t shake it. So I popped open the car door and climbed out.
Birds scattered as I closed in. I peered through the apartment window and my reflection stared back. Pensive and pale. Some might chalk it up to an overactive imagination, only I’d never really had one to overact.
I went to knock on the door and with a physical churning in my stomach I saw the lock was splintered. I pulled my Smith and Wesson and pushed my way inside. Yelled that it was the police but no one yelled back. I flicked the lights on as I moved through.
It was cold in here; a breeze coming from an open window. No signs of a struggle that I could see. No upturned table, no broken glass. No bloody trail to follow. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.
I went quickly from room to room. There was the smell of coffee and a faint popping sound that I couldn’t place until I reached the living room. Her record player in the corner, an album spinning slowly, the needle skipping over the inner circle. I wanted to turn it off but it might be evidence.
In the kitchen I found the back door wide open. Mary’s apartment opened onto a backyard, I remembered that now. Outside I could see the faint outline of branches shifting in the wind, and beyond that the stars. I called her name but she didn’t answer.
Stepping outside I let my eyes adjust to the gloom. Moonbeams faded in like stage lighting and I saw something on the wet ground. A misshapen lump wrapped in what looked like carpet. It might have been anything, but it wasn’t. Even from here I could see them.
Bare feet.
Gravel crunched under my shoes. I knocked over a flowerpot and it rolled in a tight little circle. Cold, clammy air pressed against my skin and peeled my gun from my fingers. The feet were white—pale white—but they were clean. That meant she’d been carried.
Closer now and I could make out what she was wearing. It wasn’t carpet, it was a dressing gown. I started shouting her name. Stumbling over soil and trampling plants. She didn’t move. She was lying on her front like she’d fallen and when I reached her I fell too and I clutched at her arm and rolled her onto her back.
Now I could see her neck. Bruising around her throat. Thick, dark, ugly bruising. I could see where he’d had his hands, where he’d placed each finger. A rag in her mouth to stop her crying out.
But worse than that were her eyes.
Two sockets, scooped bare and gaping open in a soundless scream that I was only too happy to fill.
Another wasted day.
I’ve stopped answering their questions now. We’re getting too close to the Main Event, the reason I’m here, the point of no return. We’re so near they can smell it. Cumstain’s like a dog in heat. Guy’s got the wild eyes, all crazy and rolling around in his sockets. I picture him going home and beating ten shits out of his hotel walls. For a moment I feel for the guy—God only knows who he’s got breathing down his neck—but then I remember my broken arm and that takes care of that.
Tubby has looked a little embarrassed these past couple days. It’s hard to tell, but I think I can see it. The way he stares at me, at my broken arm. The way he jumps to attention whenever Cumstain enters the room. A nervousness. Guy knows what his buddy did was wrong, but he also knows what I did and why I’m here. Part of him maybe even thinks I deserved it. Poor Tubby. His little brain just wasn’t built for such complex thoughts.
After the interview, Rookie took me back to this plastic seat in the corridor, just down from the main door. We’ve never spoken about it, but I think ever since Cumstain bolted over my window, Rookie’s been leaving me for as long as he can in front of that door. It’s the only chance I get nowadays to see the outside world.
It’s snowing, but not heavily. Drops of the stuff stick to the glass and a car passes with its headlights on. Across the street I can see the parking lot, and beyond that an intersection, each exit leading off into the darkness. Someone’s not closed the door properly, and every so often I get a waft of cool air. I picture myself slipping through the door and melting into the shadows. Just spreading myself out and disappearing into nothingness.
Rookie turns up and locks the interview room. He heads my way with his keys in his right hand. Time for me to settle in for the night. I’m about to say something when Desk Girl walks by on my left. She’s carrying a pile of folders, and she gives Rookie this howler of a smile before she trips over her own feet and nearly goes flying. Couple of the folders slap onto the floor. Rookie is on the scene in a flash; crouched down, keys on a nearby table and scooping up the spilled folders. Desk Girl laughs, embarrassed, and the two of them amble off to the lobby.
Everything lines up in a straight shot, just like in the movies. The keys fill my vision. I can even make out the little silver one with the black trim. Slow zoom on the one next to it, the word Ford printed in blue. Pan up and the main door beyond comes into sharp focus. A car drives past and I can hear the tires splash and its wake smells of pine.
I glance over at the lobby. Desk Girl is sorting the folders into stacks on the counter. Rookie is leaning over and they’re chatting. I can’t hear what they’re saying but there’s laughter and his back’s to me.
One second to reach the keys. Snatch them up as I go, no time to stop. Worry about uncuffing myself once I’m in the clear. Two seconds to reach the front door. It opens outward, throw my weight against it and barrel through. Four seconds to cross the street. Seven seconds total to the parking lot. Rookie is close behind, no doubt, but I give him two seconds before he manages to find his feet proper. I’ll be at his car before he finishes crossing the street. I already know what direction I’ll take once I reach that intersection. East, because why not. I just need to make the car.
And maybe he’ll choose the right direction. Maybe he’s a fast runner. Maybe he closes the gap, and that’s alright. That’s his job. I reckon he’ll get shit for leaving the keys out, and, hand on heart, I do feel bad about that. And I don’t want to have to hurt him. I don’t want to force him to shoot me, either, almost as much as I don’t want to get shot. Kid’s got a soft heart, he’ll carry that with him. Way I see it, there’s no outcome that doesn’t end with Rookie getting screwed.
And then Rookie is back and I look up and see him reach for the keys on his belt but of course they’re not there. He looks alarmed for a second, sees them on the table and snatches them up. I watch his brain putting it all together; what might have been.
“It was the shoes,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair and grinning. “No laces. Guess they’re scared I’ll try something stupid. Things would fall off my feet soon as I started running. End up going through the parking lot in my socks.”
He stares at me, and I wonder if he can see through it. I mean, sure, the shoes are garbage, and I probably would end up slicing my foot on some broken glass, but maybe that wasn’t the reason I stayed. Maybe I’m just having too much fun. Course, lines like that don’t exactly make me sound normal, and I learned long ago to keep that sort of thinking to myself. Learned it’s easier to a
ct normal than to actually be it.
Rookie doesn’t say anything as he takes me down to my cell. Uncuffs me and slides the bars home. Keeps giving me these side-looks. He’s pondering something alright.
I laid it on too thick with the shoes. Kid’s probably thinking I’ve got nothing else going on in my life ’cept these conversations. Christ. Last thing I want is anyone feeling sorry for me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Things moved pretty quickly after that.
Within what seemed like a few minutes, Mary’s backyard was milling with activity. Paramedics ushered me away to one side where I stood, watching silently, as they crouched over her. They pressed their fingers against her bruised neck and murmured to one another. Patrol officers cordoned off the area and asked me questions I couldn’t quite seem to hear.
It happened about thirty seconds after the EMT guys arrived on the scene. I saw one of them lean down close, tilting his head to press his ear against Mary’s chest. There was a babble of chatter and suddenly Mary began spasming.
I heard the sounds of medical kits being torn open and voices shouting, and then there was a terrible howling and Mary started clutching clumsily at her face and trying to sit up.
I don’t remember much after that.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Mary’s room was loud with mechanical clicks and the sound of sighing, heavy and regular. Rainbow-colored wires ran out of her arm and into a monitor that gave off gentle, rhythmic chimes. White gauze was wrapped across her face in a narrow strip where her eyes had been. The blinds were closed, the light dim. As though such things mattered anymore.
I stood in the corner and watched her sleep. Tranquilizers helping her sail the deep black.
It would be so easy. A second, nothing more. A kindness. A warm hand and a gentle pressure; her body wouldn’t even fight me. She’d welcome me—she’d thank me. I know I would. Drift off into the darkness and fade peacefully into whatever lay on the other side.
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