by Blake Pierce
“So it’s a fear of progress?”
“Sure. I doubt they would ever see it like that, but that’s what it boils down to.”
“I’m assuming this is a compliment?” she asked.
“Of course it is. This is the third time I’ve been paired with a highly motivated detective and you’re by far the most accomplished and driven I’ve seen. I’m glad we got paired up.”
She only nodded because she wasn’t sure how to handle his compliments and evaluations yet. On the job, he’d been very professional and by the book—not only in his approach to the job, but also in the way he had approached her. But now that he was being a little less reserved, Mackenzie was having a hard time drawing the line between where on-duty Ellington stopped and where off-duty Ellington began.
“Did you ever think about joining the Bureau?” Ellington asked.
The question stunned her so badly that she was unable to answer for a moment. Of course she had thought of it. She had once dreamed of it as a child. But even as a determined twenty-two-year-old with her sights on a career in law enforcement, the FBI had seemed like some unattainable dream.
“You have, huh?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little. You looked embarrassed just now. It makes me think that you have thought about it but never chased it down.”
“It was a dream of sorts that I had for a while,” she said.
It was embarrassing to admit it, but there was something about the way that he was reading her that made her not mind as much.
“You’ve got the skills,” Ellington said.
“Thanks,” she said. “But I think my roots here are too thick. I feel like it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late, you know.”
He looked at her, professional and intense.
“Would you like me to put in a word for you and see if it lands on any interested ears?”
She was blown away by his offer. On the one hand, she wanted to, more than anything; on the other, it brought up all her old insecurities. Who was she to qualify to work for the FBI?
Slowly, she shook her head.
“Thank you,” she replied. “But no.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Not to talk too badly about the men you work with, but you’re being misused.”
“What would I do at the FBI?” she asked.
“You’d make a stellar field agent,” he said. “Hell, maybe a profiler, too.”
Mackenzie looked thoughtfully into her beer, a bit taken aback. She had again been stunned to silence and now felt that she had a lot to consider. What if she could make it as an agent? How drastically would her life change? How rewarding would it be to work a job she loved without the hindrances of men like Nelson and Porter to hold her back?
“You okay?” Ellington asked.
Still peering into the dark beer in front of her, she sighed. She thought about Zack for a moment and could not recall the last meaningful conversation they’d had. When was the last time he’d built her up in the same way Ellington was right now? For that matter, when was the last time any man had spoken so highly of her directly in front of her?
“I’m fine,” she said. “I appreciate everything you’re saying. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“Good,” Ellington said softly, not missing a beat. “But let me ask you: do you have a history of holding yourself back?”
“I don’t think it’s my self,” she said. “I think it’s just…I don’t know. My past, maybe?”
“Your dad’s death?”
She nodded.
“That’s some of it,” she said.
There’s also my string of failed relationships, she thought, but didn’t think it was appropriate to say. And as she dwelled on it, she suddenly wondered if the two were related—her dad’s death and her relationships. Maybe the source of all of it was, after all, the death.
Would she ever recover from it? She didn’t see how she could. No matter how many bad guys she put behind bars, nothing ever seemed to help.
He nodded as if he understood perfectly.
“I understand,” he said.
Then, flashing him a smile so he’d know she was joking, she asked: “Are you psychoanalyzing me, Agent Ellington?”
“No, I’m talking to you. I’m listening. Nothing more.”
Mackenzie finished her beer and slid the glass to the edge of the bar. The bartender grabbed it right away and filled it again, placing it back in front of her.
“I know that’s why this case has me shaken so badly,” she added. “A man is using women. Maybe it’s not for sex, but he’s inflicting pain and shame on them as a way to express some deranged point.”
“And this is the first case you’ve had like this?”
“Yes. I mean, I’ve been to domestic dispute calls where a husband roughed up his wife, and I’ve questioned two women after they were raped. But nothing like this.”
She drank from her beer, realizing that it was going down far too easily. She had never been a big drinker and this beer—her third of the night—was pushing her to a line that she had tried to avoid crossing ever since college.
“I don’t know if my hunches mean anything to you,” Ellington said, “but this guy will be caught within a few days. I’m pretty sure of it. He’s getting too cocky and one of these leads we keep accumulating will eventually pay off. Plus, the fact that you’re heading it all up is a big plus.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked. “About my performance, I mean? And why are you being so nice?”
He was filling her with confidence and, at the same time, reinforcing a trait she possessed that she knew was one of the worst things about her. She knew she tended to get defensive around men that complimented her, mainly because it always meant they wanted one thing. Looking at Ellington as he smiled her, she didn’t think it would be too bad if he was looking for that one specific thing. In fact, she was starting to think she might enjoy the hell out of it. Of course, he was going back tomorrow and the chances were very good that she’d never see him again.
Maybe that’s exactly what I need, she thought. One night. No emotion, no expectations, just the dark and this too-good-to-be-true FBI agent that seems to know all the right things to say and—
She shut the thought down because, quite frankly, it was far too enticing. She then realized that Ellington had still not answered her question: Why are you being so nice?
He bit back his smile and finally answered.
“Because,” he replied, “you deserve a break. I got my position because a friend knew a friend who knew a deputy chief. And I can guarantee you that half of the cavemen on your force can say the same thing or something similar.”
She laughed, and the sound of it made her realize that she was just about to tip over that line. As she tried to recall the last time she had gotten drunk, she tipped back the rest of her beer and slid the glass to the edge of the bar. When the bartender came for it, she shook her head.
“Can you drive?” she asked. “I’m a bit of a lightweight. Sorry.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
When the bartender came over with their tabs, Ellington quickly picked hers up before she could lay a hand on it. Watching him do that, she decided that she was going to find out what one emotionless night with a man straight out of a dream might be like. After all, she now had her house and her bed all to herself. What could it hurt?
They walked outside to the car and she noticed that Ellington was walking extremely close to her. He opened her car door for her, furthering his charm in her eyes. When he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side, Mackenzie rested her head against the headrest and took a deep breath. From an abandoned house with a dead woman on a pole to here, on the verge of propositioning a man she had only met yesterday—had this really all happened in the course of less than twelve hours?
“Your car is at the station, right?” Ellington asked.
�
��It is,” she said. And then, her heart beating, she hesitantly added, “But we pass my place on the way—we could just stop there if you want.”
He gave her a perplexed look and the corners of his mouth seemed to battle between a smile and a frown. It was clear that he knew what she was suggesting; she didn’t doubt he’d had similar offers before.
“Ah, Jesus,” he said, rubbing at his head. “To further show you my strong will and character, this is the part where I tell you I’m married.”
Mackenzie looked to his left hand—the same hand she had glanced at several times in the bar just to make sure. There was no ring there.
“I know,” he said. “I never wear it when I’m working. I hate the way it feels when I have to go for my gun.”
“Oh my God,” Mackenzie said. “I’m—”
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “And believe me, I’m beyond flattered. I meant everything I said in there. And while I’m sure the primal male in me will mentally kick my ass for this for the rest of my life, I love my wife and my daughter very much. I think I—”
“Can you just take me to my car?” Mackenzie asked, embarrassed. She looked out of the window and felt like screaming.
“I’m sorry,” Ellington said.
“Don’t be. It’s my fault. I should have known better.”
He started the car and pulled out of the lot. “Better than what?” he asked as they headed back for the station.
“Nothing,” she said, still refusing to look at him.
But in the silence that hung heavy on the way to the station, she thought: I should have known better than to believe in something too good to be true.
As they drove home in the silence, she wanted to curl up in a ball and die, hating herself, wondering if she had just blown the best opportunity to come along in her life in a long, long time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mackenzie woke at 6:45 the following morning to the sound of an incoming text. She was already awake, dressed in her underwear. She checked the message and her heart dropped to see it was from Ellington.
Heading home. I’ll call you later today to check in.
She thought about calling him right then and there. She was well aware that she’d acted like an immature jilted teenager yesterday. Hell, she hadn’t really even been rejected. Ellington had simply stayed true to his character, adding faithful husband to his long list of admirable characteristics.
In the end, she let it go. She still felt embarrassed but more than that, she felt defeated. And that was not something she felt very often. The killer was still out there and they were no closer to catching him than they had been three days ago. She’d lost her live-in boyfriend of three years and then found herself infatuated with an FBI agent less than twenty-four hours later. To make matters worse, she’d seen a promise of what her future could be when she was with Ellington; she had seen what her job could be like with someone that respected her and, in a way, was in awe of her. And now that was gone.
She had only Porter and Nelson to look forward to, surrounding her with doubt in the midst of a case that was getting under her skin.
As she slid a shirt on, she sat on the corner of her bed and looked at her cell phone. Suddenly, it was not Ellington that she wanted to call. She was thinking of someone else—someone else who shared the same traumas and sense of failure that she knew so well.
With a sudden pit in her stomach, Mackenzie picked her cell phone up from the dresser and scrolled through her contacts. When she reached the name Steph, she pressed CALL and then nearly ended it right away.
By the time the phone started ringing, she already regretted making the call. It rang twice on the other end before it was answered. The voice of her sister on the other end was familiar, but one she didn’t hear nearly enough.
“Mackenzie,” Stephanie said. “It’s early.”
“You never sleep past five,” Mackenzie pointed out.
“That’s true. But I was just making a point. It’s early.”
“Sorry,” she said. It was a word she used a lot when she spoke to Steph. Not because she actually meant it, but Steph had a way of heaping on the guilt in an effortless way about the smallest of things.
“What did Zack do this time?” Steph asked.
“It’s not Zack,” Mackenzie said. “Zack is gone.”
“Good,” Steph said, matter-of-factly. “He was a waste of space.”
There was silence on the line for a moment. It was clear that Steph could have gone the rest of her life without speaking to her sister ever again. It was a fact she had made clear multiple times. They did not hate each other—not by a long shot—but interacting with one another brought up the past. And the past was something that Steph had spent most of her thirty-three years of life running hard from.
As always, Steph sounded half-asleep when she spoke on the phone.
“No sense in getting into details. Bills barely paid. Alcoholic boyfriend with a reputation for throwing right hooks at me. Constant migraines. Which would you like to hear about?”
Mackenzie took a deep breath.
“Well, how about starting with the boyfriend that’s beating you?” Mackenzie said. “Why don’t you report him for abuse?”
Steph said only laughed. “Too much trouble. No thanks.”
Mackenzie bit back a stream of responses to the other things. Among them were: How about you go back to college, finish working toward your degree, and get out of that dead-end job? But right now was not the time for such advice. Now, over the phone, things would stay at the surface. They had both learned long ago that it was better that way.
“So spill it,” Steph said. “You only ever call when things are going to shit for you. Is it just Zack leaving? Because if it is, let me tell you—that’s the best thing that could have happened to you.”
“That’s part of it,” Mackenzie said. “But there’s also this case that is getting under my skin in a way that I’ve never experienced. It’s making me feel, I don’t know, inadequate. Throw in the fact that I invited a married man into bed yesterday and—”
“Did you get lucky?” Steph interrupted.
“God, Steph. That’s all you took away from that?”
“It was the only interesting thing I heard. Who was it?”
“An FBI agent that was sent down to help with the case.”
“Oh,” Steph said, apparently done with the conversation. Silence fell across the line for about five seconds before she repeated the question: “Well, did he?”
“No.”
“Ouch,” Steph said.
“Do you not feel like talking?” Mackenzie asked.
“Rarely. I mean, we’re strangers, Mackenzie. What do you want from me?”
Mackenzie sighed, overcome with sadness.
“I want my sister,” Mackenzie said, surprising even herself. “I want a sister that I can call and that will call me from time to time to tell me about the creep at work that has grab-hands.”
Steph sighed. It was a sound that seemed to travel the eight hundred miles that separated them and reach out through the phone to slap her in the face.
“That’s not me,” Steph said. “You know that every time we talk, Dad will come up. And it all goes downhill from there. Even worse, we start talking about Mom.”
The word mom sent another slap through the phone line. “How is she?” Mackenzie asked.
“The same as always. I talked to her last month. She asked me for some money.”
“Did you lend it to her?”
“Mackenzie, I don’t have the money to lend her.”
Another silence filled the phone. Mackenzie had offered to lend Steph money on several occasions but each attempt had been met with scorn, anger, and resentment. So after a while, Mackenzie had simply stopped trying.
“Is that all?” Steph asked.
“One more thing, if you don’t mind,” Mackenzie said.
“What is it?”
“When you spoke to Mom, did she
mention me even once?”
Steph was quiet for a while and then finally answered. When she did, her sleepy voice was back. “You really want to do this to yourself?”
“Did she ask about me?” Mackenzie asked, her voice louder now and more demanding.
“She did. She asked if I thought you would lend her any money. I told her to ask you herself. That was it.”
Mackenzie felt overwhelmed with sadness. That was all her mom had ever wanted of her.
She held the phone to her ear, feeling a tear, unsure what to say.
“Look,” Steph said. “For real, I have to go.”
The phone went dead.
Mackenzie tossed the phone on the bed and stared at it for a moment. The conversation had lasted no more than five minutes but it felt like a lifetime. Still, it had oddly gone much better than their last few phone calls, which had ended with arguments over the family dynamic in regards to who was to blame for their mother’s downfall after their father’s death. Yet in a way, this call was worse.
She thought about the years that sat like a rotting stretch between the night she found her father dead and the night her mother had been taken to the psychiatric ward of the hospital for the first time. Mackenzie had been seventeen when that had happened; Steph had been in college, working toward a journalism degree. After that, things had gone south for the three of them but Mackenzie was the only one who had managed to endure it all, coming out as on top as possible given the dire circumstances.
She thought of her mother as she finished getting dressed, wondering why the poor woman had chosen to hate her through all of it. It was a question she kept tucked away in the furthest corners of her mind, only bringing it out when she was at her lowest.
Doing everything she could to keep herself from going there, she retrieved her phone, badge, and gun. She then headed out for work, determined. But where did she go from here? What was her next step?
For the first time since being promoted to detective, she felt like she was at a dead end.
Dead end, she thought, the words starting to build an idea in her mind.
She thought about the dirt road the second body had been found alongside. Hadn’t it come to a dead end in that field?