by Cat Connor
Lee replied, “That’d sure make it easier to kill someone. I’m coming up the front path.”
I settled down to watch Lee’s arrival on the screen.
The front door opened.
The man we assumed was Nathan greeted Lee with a hug and a smile. He was certainly big enough to insert a man in a chimney. Lee stood six foot six that gave me a good height comparison. I picked Nathan to be six foot four. He was well built, looked like he worked out a lot. His eyes rested on the black bag Lee carried. It was supposed to contain a Santa suit but it was just spare clothes, since we didn’t have a Santa suit on hand.
They went through to the living room. I watched my screen, the camera planted in the living room gave me a clear view as Nathan produced two glasses of wine and handed one to Lee.
Lee put it down and began asking questions about some photographs he saw on a side table. Nathan steered him back to the wine. Lee broke off on another tangent. Nathan picked up Lee’s bag and handed it to him. “I’ve a naughty boy, Santa,” he said in a grating whisper.
“Yes, you have, Blitzen. Your name is on the top of my list.” Lee held the bag up and appeared confused. “Where do I change?”
“Down the hall,” Nathan replied, taking a swig from his glass. “You haven’t touched your wine,” he admonished gently.
I whispered to Lee, “Take it with you.”
Lee took the glass and the bag down the hall. Over his shoulder he said, “You better think about how naughty you’ve been, Blitzen.” Lee would need a lot of bourbon later to erase today’s activities.
Lee found his way to the laundry room and we watched the screen together.
Nathan relaxed on a sofa, drinking his wine.
“We done here?” Lee asked me, his voice full of hope.
“Let’s see what happens when you go back out there without the Santa suit?”
Lee grimaced and did as I suggested. Nathan was not happy to see him in street clothes.
“Where’s your suit?” he demanded, leaping to his feet.
“I must’ve picked up the wrong bag,” Lee said apologetically, crossing the room and giving a good impression of someone slightly intoxicated.
“Where’s your glass?” Nathan asked. The hard edge to his voice melted as Lee staggered slightly.
“I don’t know, I left it somewhere, I guess.” Lee plonked down rather heavily on the sofa, making sure Nathan couldn’t see the earpiece he wore. Nathan crawled up beside him, his hands working their way under Lee’s shirt.
“You ever been strangled, you know just a little?” Nathan whispered into Lee’s ear. He deftly unbuttoned Lee’s shirt.
“No I haven’t,” Lee replied, slurring his words.
“I think you’d like it.” His fingers ran down Lee’s chest and paused on his stomach.
“No,” Lee replied, trying to stand up. Nathan was on him, using his weight to hold him against the sofa. “Get off me,” Lee said, pushing him.
“Don’t be like that, it’s fun, you’ll like it,” Nathan said, his hands slid up over his chest, reaching out to Lee’s neck. I wanted to burst in and save him, but I knew Lee could handle himself. At that point it seemed better to let Lee try for some kid of confession.
Lee jumped to his feet, hauling Nathan with him.
He held the man at arm’s length. I don’t want to play with you anymore.”
“Maybe you should have another glass of wine,” Nathan replied smoothly.
“No,” Lee said.
I left the laptop, moved silently to the backdoor, and carefully dusted the crowbar for fingerprints, finding several. I lifted them and scurried back to the laundry room. It only took a few seconds to photograph the prints and upload them to my laptop, then compare them to the prints we knew belonged to Nathan Johansen. They were a match. I went back to the kitchen, and waited ready to enter the living room. I heard Sam telling Johansen we were about to catch the Santa killer.
Nathan complained that Lee was no fun. He should’ve had the Santa suit. “Have another glass of wine. Relax a little. You’re a big man, no doubt you can handle quite a few glasses.”
I felt a disruption in the force as Lee controlled the urge to squash Nathan like a blowfly.
Lee spoke, “One of my friends met someone the other day that was into Santas, and no one has seen him since. It wasn’t you was it?”
“I shouldn’t think so; you know how many of us are out there. You’ve been in the chat rooms.” Nathan’s voice took on a suspicious edge. “Were you just looking for your friend?”
“No, never mind, fill my glass. We don’t need Santa suits…”
Nathan appeared delighted by the news. “Come snuggle with me, we’ll forget all about the world.”
I whispered in Lee’s ear. “Here I come. He’s not going to talk, and we have a match with his prints.”
I walked into the living room.
Nathan jumped.
Lee joined me on the other side of the room, leaving Nathan looking quite confused.
“As much fun as this was, Nathan Johansen, you are under arrest for murder,” Lee said. I handed him my handcuffs to use. He moved in on Nathan, twisted one arm behind his back, closed the cuffs around his wrist, and repeated with the other arm.
Sam and Johansen appeared in the doorway. The shocked look on Johansen’s face said it all. He had no idea what his brother had been up to.
“Why?” Johansen asked, as Lee marched Nathan toward to the door.
“Because I could,” Nathan replied with a sick grin. “As long as everyone happily denied who I really was I could do anything.”
I looked at the brothers; I saw the crumbling of lives as the decades spent living in denial collapsed in front of them.
Sam’s huge hand rested on my shoulder he spoke quietly to me. “Let’s wrap this up, quick. There’s a party waiting.”
Officer Johansen looked back at me from the doorway. “Thank you,” he said with caustic correctness.
I didn’t reply. I had nothing to say that could make the man feel any better about what had happened in his small town.
We headed back to DC pushing the Santa case out of our minds.
There was a New Year to welcome.
It was time to party.
5 EVERY ROSE HAS ITS THORN
My office walls provided a safe zone as I sat at my desk flicking aimlessly through a pile of case files. Lee and Sam were out on an investigation. Caine was in his office. A buzz of voices and phones ringing from the bullpen penetrated the walls as muffled sounds of life.
With a sigh I leaned back in my chair. Tiredness washed over me. It wouldn’t hurt to close my eyes for a minute.
Staring at the ceiling I found myself counting glow in the dark stars as a small voice whispered, “You’re not in D.C. now, Ellie.”
The room was the same as when I was young. Nothing had changed. Except me. My laptop sat on my star-covered bedside table.
Grey light squeezed through a gap in the curtains. It was barely morning.
I dragged the covers back up off the floor where they’d fallen during the night and then picked up the laptop. With a sense of coming home, I logged into my own little world. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be around at the crack of dawn; my checking in was more about missing the comfort of my virtual home than wanting to interact with others.
The screen changed to the familiar blues of Cobwebs’ chat room.
My name sat at the top right-hand side of the screen with a golden hammer next to it.
The gold hammer meant I owned the room, and I bestowed hammers upon people I trusted to moderate in my absence. With the help of friends we’d created it as a place where poets could share their work.
Already there were several good mornings typed into the main chat box. The list of names below mine surprised me. Obviously no one slept much last night. I scanned the list twice looking for Galileo, while replying to those who had said hello. He wouldn’t be there, not that time of day and not o
n the day he was heading to Virginia Beach on vacation. A private message from Stormy lit up bright red at the bottom of my screen. I clicked it open.
Stormy: You seen Carter lately?
An odd question for such an early hour. I found myself muttering at the screen, “Nope and I don’t wanna see him either.”
I typed a more pleasant reply.
Otherwisecat: No. You do mean in here, huh?
Stormy: Yeah. We may have a problem with him. He’s been a little spooky and freaked Bitter out a few hours ago.
That’s not so odd for Carter.
Otherwisecat: I’ll change the room code. Recreate the room so he isn’t a gold hammer anymore. Tell the other gold’s not to hammer him.
It’s no real surprise that he’s gone freaky. I’d come across him in life and odd is the nicest thing I could say about him.
Otherwisecat: Stormy, you seen Galileo in the last few hours?
A whoosh of air escaped my lips and I realized I was holding my breath waiting for her reply.
I really need to get some guts here and just ask him to meet me for coffee someday. It’s hardly inconceivable. I heard it then, the loud clucking inside my head.
Stormy had replied while the clucking occupied me.
Stormy: Nope. Why don’t you two just get together?’
Because I’m chicken, but why hasn’t he asked me? Hmmm? Maybe he doesn’t feel like I do. I gave myself a good hard mental thwack; no sense thinking stupid thoughts when I know otherwise. The clucking got louder.
Otherwisecat: I’m chicken.
Stormy: LOL you scared? I don’t believe it.
Thank God, our relationship medium was a computer and she couldn’t see the rising color in my cheeks. I bet she was really laughing too.
The main chat window captured my attention; a girl was posting a poem. It was beautiful, well-crafted, and full of delicate imagery. When she’d finished I commented on the imagery and heart that went into the creation of such a poem and thanked her for sharing with us. Stormy lit the bottom of my screen up.
Stormy: Wow, that kid is amazing.
Otherwisecat: Sure is.
We could do with more like her, and then maybe I wouldn’t be the most hated host in the chat system. I don’t think I am the most hated, Stormy, Bitter, and I probably share that honor. Our zero tolerance policy gets us a lot of flak. We don’t tolerate rudeness, bright-colored fonts, gore, or graphic sex and violence.
Galileo has the same zero tolerance but doesn’t tend to get people’s backs up as we do.
Guess he’s just a nicer person.
I watched the room respond to the new poet, ready to privately admonish anyone who overstepped the line. We all agreed on disciplinary actions: two private reminders to be nice, one public, and then I kick them out.
If they come back and behave badly again they face a twenty-four-hour ban, and after that it can easily become permanent. People should be safe in our room to share their work without harassment by others. I yawned and stretched. Everyone was playing nice.
Morning noises in the house reminded me I had to get moving.
I’d been in Richmond working for weeks on a particularly nasty serial rape case. Yesterday Delta A arrested a suspect. Last night we finished up the paperwork. The case was closed. Confession made and corroborated. Suspect my ass. He was guilty as sin and twice as ugly.
Best of all, instead of rejoining Delta A back in Washington, D.C., right away, I was going home to Mauryville in Rockbridge County.
I typed my goodbyes into the main room.
Then typed a private goodbye to Stormy.
Otherwisecat: Tell Bitter blocking Carter from her messengers would be a smart idea.
Stormy: Okay. Why don’t you email Galileo and ask him out for coffee. Which she followed with a smiley face.
Otherwisecat: I can’t.
Stormy: You will and get back to me tomorrow telling me you did.
I poked my tongue out at the screen and then sent her a cheeky smiley face.
Stormy: Do I have to do this for you?
Pure panic rose as I answered: No!
Stormy: Then do it.
Otherwisecat: Bye Stormy, I gotta go do the breakfast thing with the family.
And get the hell out of Dodge.
An hour later I walked into the kitchen. Dad was nowhere to be seen.
Sun streamed in the window, bathing my mother in a golden glow as she busied herself at the counter. Light reflected off the loose fitting scarlet silk shirt she wore, her long golden blonde hair clipped back into a low ponytail, her expensive jeans pressed to a sharp crease.
My mother was immaculately groomed as always no matter what the time of day. She seemed so normal, like everyone else’s mother, as she made breakfast.
Deception of appearances.
A large cloud meandered across the sun, casting odd-shaped shadows in the room. I sat at the kitchen table. Dad had already eaten. His coffee cup sat almost empty and his plate bore the remnants of scrambled eggs.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, hoping he was coming right back.
“He had errands to run.”
Damn looked like I was eating with Mom and without a buffer zone.
“I’ll call him later from home then.” Home resonated in my head. Home. Alone. Miles away from people. If I closed my eyes I felt like I was already there.
“Do you want eggs, Gabrielle?”
“Sure,” I replied.
The spell was broken; my shoulder muscles tensed.
For a moment, it felt like I was staring down a gun barrel.
I recognized Mom’s interrogation opening and could barely begin to imagine what she’d come up with this time.
A plate appeared in front of me. Obviously, there had been no question in her mind about breakfast. My eggs were accompanied by a glass of orange juice.
I forced my shoulders to relax but could do nothing to alleviate the tightening ball in my chest.
She sat across from me at the kitchen table. Mom’s slender fingers toyed with the edge of a napkin, repeatedly smoothing the same section of fringe. I reached out for a bread roll, willing my hand not to shake.
Buttering the roll to within an inch of its life helped a little. I managed two mouthfuls before Mom spoke again.
“Do you have an eating disorder?”
I put down the roll and started on my eggs. With a death grip on my fork, I forced myself to eat a mouthful knowing she was watching me with abnormal interest.
Had I not been subject to the same accusation on a regular basis since early childhood, it may have been funny. But I had and any amusement factor had long since worn off. My internal voice made a frantic attempt to pacify my rising temper, “Come on Ellie, just one meal, surely you are adult enough to get through one meal in a civilized manner, then you can go home?”
The attempt was thwarted with a resounding, ‘Hell no!’
“Gabrielle, do you? I’m sure you’ve lost weight.”
My eyes met hers, my stomach churned, and I hoped my voice was calm as I replied, “No, Mom.”
“You look skin and bone. There’s nothing to you.” She scrutinized me. “Your face is drawn and sharper than I recalled.”
Oh God! I wanted to scream, “This is how I look this is how I have always looked!”
Compared to the internal screaming and stamping I was doing, my actual response was almost civil.
“Can’t you let me be how I am?” I shoveled another load of eggs into my mouth to stop myself saying anything more and watched her from under my bangs.
“You’re too skinny.”
I swallowed my mouthful – she wasn’t going to let it go.
“I’m really sorry I’m too skinny for you, Mom,” I said quietly. “What is it you want from me?”
“Eat more! For God’s sake, Gabrielle, you are wasting away. Perhaps we should be looking at some sort of help.”
My fingers tightened on the fork. My mind chirped, Here we go
again.
“Luckily you don’t need to concern yourself, Mom. As a Special Agent I have regular psychological exams,” I replied, then hissed under my breath, “So I don’t end up like you.”
“What do you mean by that?” her eyes narrowed as she found an opening she could use.
What a way to find out her hearing was as sharp as ever.
I sighed.
“Don’t. Push. Me. Mom.”
“I think I deserve an explanation.”
I felt powerless to prevent my outburst.
“I’m having trouble with your sudden interest and concern. Let’s face it your track record lacks in that department.”
“You ungrateful little witch!”
“That’s right, Mom, I’m ungrateful, and you gave me so much to be grateful for. The times you’d disappear for days on end while Dad was at sea and came back wearing the same clothes you left in and stinking of booze. Those times you took off and left Aidan shut in a fuc’n cupboard until I came home from school to free him. The sudden concern you displayed when you wrote notes to excuse me from gym class… why was that again, Mom?”
Mom fidgeted with the fringe and focused on the sugar bowl.
I continued, “Oh, I remember, so no one would see the bruises you left on my body.”
Her voice faltered as she whispered, “You were a clumsy child.”
“No, Mom, I wasn’t.”
“What is it Gabrielle, anorexia or bulimia?”
“Neither Mom, I’m not ill.” Then something occurred to me; maybe she needed me to be ill to make her feel better. “Do I need a mental illness to make me more interesting Mom?”
She snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous, Gabrielle.” Mom raised her chin slightly. “Bangs at your age? What are you hiding from?”
I groaned internally. She wasn’t done yet.
“Let me eat my breakfast, please Mom.”
She said, “Are you gay?”
Scrambled eggs lodged in the back of my throat. I grabbed the glass of juice and took a big swallow.
“What?”
“Are you gay?” she repeated, her piercing blue eyes narrowed as she stared at me. “Because it’s okay to be gay. Your father and I just want you to be happy.”
“No.”