Amounting to Nothing

by Karis Walsh

  Billie managed to say the right words to ease Merissa’s worries, but she struggled against the sense of being soothed. The other officers had been kind enough and had reassured her when she started to spiral out of control with guilt and sorrow, but Billie did more than comfort. She understood the heart of what was hurting Merissa and she reached inside and addressed it directly, closing the gaping wounds. Billie’s strength only made Merissa’s weakness even more obvious, though, and her ability to say the right thing threw Merissa’s half-formed thoughts and sentences into stark relief. Merissa felt an irrational anger because Billie’s help made her seem even more vulnerable than she’d been feeling. She wasn’t sure how to handle her confusing reactions, and she focused instead on reliving the last moments she’d ever spend with Dennis.

  “We’d gone to Seattle to scout some neighborhoods,” Merissa said, focusing on the facts of yesterday and wishing she could change the day’s end by changing her words. She thought even further back, to their discussion when she had wanted to take her car, but Dennis had offered to drive instead because she liked to sketch plans while they were on these trips. If only I’d been the one driving sounded like it might qualify as beating herself up.

  “What exactly were you looking at in Seattle?”

  Merissa, jarred back into the present, noticed they were driving downhill, toward the Tideflats and away from the street where Dennis had been shot, but she answered Billie’s question instead of asking why. “Ideas for a renovation project we have in the works. Had in the works. During the planning phase, we’ll look for inspiration in all sorts of places. Or we used to look for inspiration.”

  Billie reached over and patted Merissa’s leg. The touch was brief, but somehow it pulled all of Merissa’s focus to the spot on her thigh where Billie’s hand rested. Her rioting thoughts and emotions centered, and then spun out of control again. She gave a deep sigh.

  “Don’t worry about getting the tenses right,” Billie said. “Just talk. How long were you in Seattle?”

  “About three hours. We got back here just after six.”

  Merissa kept her answers short and let Billie’s calm questions lead her through the recounting of the night’s events. Piece by piece, Merissa gave more details about their route from the freeway, her carsickness, and their conversation than she’d realized she could recall. Billie was like a puppeteer, making Merissa talk and seek out her memories. Merissa wanted to cut the strings and be left alone again, but at the same time, she was relieved to be remembering so much more than she’d expected. Her tale ended where she began, with the dropped card and the gunshot.

  “Good,” Billie said. “You have an excellent memory. We’ll retrace your steps and maybe something new will come to you. First, though, let’s get some food.”

  She pulled into the drive-thru lane of a McDonald’s, and Merissa grimaced. She rarely ate fast food and she wasn’t about to start today. She doubted she could keep anything down, let alone a greasy hamburger. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  Billie ordered a meal and a Coke and then she inched the car forward in line. “When’s the last time you had something to eat?”

  “We had a late lunch in Seattle,” Merissa said. Pad Thai at their favorite restaurant. She’d never eat there with Dennis again. The realization should have made her cry, but instead she felt curiously numb.

  Billie paid for the sack of food and dropped it on Merissa’s lap. “Eat.”

  Merissa was about to protest some more, but the scent of french fries made her stomach growl again. She reached into the bag. Maybe just one. Or maybe a handful. She finished the fries in a matter of seconds, barely pausing to wipe oil and salt off her fingers before she unwrapped the burger and took a huge bite. She’d been hungry before, of course, but this was nothing like a normal appetite, just like the fatigue from jet lag was more profound than normal weariness. The unaccustomed neediness accompanying her meal brought tears to her eyes. Great. Now she wanted to cry. Because of a stupid Quarter Pounder, not because her mentor had died right in front of her.

  Billie drove down Pacific Avenue toward the freeway, glancing at her occasionally with an inscrutable expression in her intense eyes, but she didn’t speak until Merissa had wolfed down the entire meal. “It’s normal,” Billie said. She accelerated onto the freeway heading north toward Seattle, but she didn’t stay on I-5 long and took the Portland Avenue exit instead.

  Merissa braced her hand on the dashboard as Billie made a sweeping turn and crossed under I-5. “What’s normal?”

  “Whatever it is you’re feeling right now. You look upset, but don’t be. After what you’ve been through, everything will seem upside down. You’ll have extreme emotions at one moment, but when you think you should feel sad or scared or whatever, you’ll be completely numb. You’re not a monster if you don’t feel grief at what you believe are appropriate times, and you’re not overreacting if odd things make you cry. These are normal responses to stress, even though they seem weird and unpredictable.”

  Merissa nodded and wiped the tears off her cheek. She took her attention off the horizon long enough to look at Billie. Her words and expression seemed to show a calm compassion and understanding, but Merissa wondered if Billie knew the right words to say because she had been around other victims in her line of work or if she had been through trauma herself. Merissa was annoyed because Billie seemed to read her so well, but Billie even understood her confusing annoyance. A vicious cycle, with Merissa spinning out of control. Wondering about Billie’s life and past distracted her from her own emotions. Still, she now felt a little less worried about her unexpected reactions to both the night’s events and to Billie’s calm presence. She wasn’t used to being pissed at someone just because they were helpful to her, and she decided to chalk her responses—even her physical attraction to Billie—up to stress and nothing more. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” Billie said. “Now keep your eyes on the road so you don’t get sick.”

  Merissa gave a brief laugh, surprising herself with the sound. “Don’t worry. I won’t throw up in your car.”

  Billie shrugged. “Go ahead, it’s a pool car. But if you’re planning on it, I’ll have to put you in the backseat because it’s easier to hose down.”

  Merissa glanced back at the hard plastic shell in place of a normal, padded seat. With the surrounding plexiglass shield, it looked like a clear coffin. “No thanks,” she said. “I’ll stay up here.”

  They merged onto the freeway again, going south. “Okay,” Billie said. “You took the I-705 exit. What was happening in the car?”

  “We were discussing the neighborhood we want to renovate. I was telling Dennis I’d like to have an open pathway through the center, like the staircase over there, and he was trying to convince me to make it a more isolated community. Our usual argument. We turned here.”

  Billie retraced their route through downtown Tacoma. Billie rolled down the windows, and the bracing breeze helped Merissa focus. Billie didn’t say much while Merissa talked about their plans to refurbish the city block, and Merissa thought the atmosphere in the car changed in some indefinable way but she had trouble reading the unflappable officer next to her. Billie seemed level on the surface—her voice, her reasonable words, the spare but graceful way she gestured with her hands while she talked—but Merissa sensed passion and movement beneath the calm. She was too consumed by controlling and understanding her own fretful insides to be able to truly see or understand what Billie might be thinking about her, and she gave up trying. Maybe Billie was just giving her a chance to remember the trip without distracting her with questions. As they were about to turn off Pacific Avenue, Merissa felt her thoughts swing back to the night before with a jolt.

  “He saw someone. He was looking in the rearview mirror and made a kind of grunt. When I asked what was wrong, he said he thought he saw someone he knew.”

  “Good, Merissa,” Billie said. Merissa felt a swell of pride because she�
��d finally remembered something potentially useful, but Billie’s next words brought her down again. “Did you look back when he said that? Did you notice what kind of car he was looking at, or ask who he saw?”

  “No,” Merissa said. She felt her shoulders droop. “We turned off Pacific right after he mentioned it. Do you think it was related to what happened? And I completely missed it!”

  Billie nudged her with an elbow. “It might have been connected, and it might be completely separate from what happened after. He lived in Tacoma, so the chances are good he’d see familiar faces while driving anywhere in the city. Just keep focusing on remembering details like that, not on what you should have done.”

  Merissa would try for now, but she doubted she’d ever get past the guilt she felt. How many opportunities to see the shooter or to prevent the murder completely had she missed? She wanted Billie to be angry with her, to blame her for what happened and validate her own guilt, but Billie remained as stoic as she’d been since the first moment she walked into the precinct. Merissa was sure Billie had strong emotions just like she did, but Merissa’s were plainly visible to everyone around her. Billie’s were tucked inside.

  When they got close to the neighborhood, Billie slowed the car. She stopped at a red light next to a convenience store where a group of young men were lounging under a bus stop shelter.

  “Hey, Mitchell,” one of them called. “Where’s your horse? You get bucked off?”

  The group laughed and Billie grinned in response. “He’s off today,” she said. “He gets more vacation days than I do.”

  “He deserves them, having to haul your ass all over the city.” The guys laughed harder, and Billie waved when the light changed and she drove forward again. Merissa was surprised by the easy banter between a cop and what looked to her like potential troublemakers. “Your horse?” she asked. “Is that street slang for something?”

  Billie chuckled. “Yes. It’s slang for a large animal with four hooves. I’m with the mounted unit, and I’m usually riding on my patrol beat, not driving.”

  Merissa suddenly realized why Billie was wearing a different uniform than the other officers, and she also remembered where she’d seen her before. The Daffodil Parade through the streets of Tacoma and nearby Puyallup in the fall. Of course, she hadn’t recognized Billie’s face because then she’d worn sunglasses and a helmet.

  “You ride a chestnut Thoroughbred, with a small white sock on his left hind.”

  “Yes,” Billie said, looking at her with raised eyebrows. “Ranger. How’d you know?”

  “I’m on the Daffodil Festival committee and I saw you riding in the parade. I couldn’t see your face, but I remember your figure.” Merissa waved vaguely at Billie’s body, feeling her face heat with embarrassment. She’d thought Billie was sexy even before she got a good look at her edgy face and gorgeous eyes. “I mean the way you rode. Your team, that is. You’re all good riders, and I…”

  Her voice trailed to a halt. She pointed with a suddenly shaky finger. “I saw that car.”

  Billie braked swiftly. “You saw it last night? Are you sure?”

  Merissa stared at the old brown Chrysler. Snatches of memory came back to her when she was distracted by either anger toward or attraction to Billie and not focused on remembering, like seeing flashes of the past in her peripheral vision. “Yes. At least, I think so. Or one just like it.” She shook her head, hating the uncertainty in her voice. “It passed us right before I could scream for help, right after Dennis was shot.”

  Billie frowned and took out her notepad and pen. “Good job, Merissa,” she said, but her praise sounded flat. Merissa wasn’t sure why, since she’d finally uncovered a shred of useful information from her confused mind.

  “There wasn’t a lot of traffic,” she said. “Maybe the shooter was in that car.”

  Chapter Four

  Billie parked in front of the precinct again. She wished she had a few minutes to herself, to compose her thoughts and formulate a plan, but her charge was looking at her expectantly. Merissa had been pushed and pulled in all directions since the shooting, and she was waiting to be told what to do next. She was Billie’s first responsibility right now, and everything else would have to wait.

  Billie was proud of being the department’s go-to person for witnesses and victims like Merissa, even though the experience of constantly reliving pain through someone else wore her out. She should be elated because her probing questions and calm method had helped Merissa uncover a new clue that might help them catch the killer, even if the potential evidence she’d brought to light left Billie reeling.

  But Merissa wasn’t helping Billie’s attempts to remain calm and in charge. The time with her had been exactly what Billie had expected in some ways—Merissa was traumatized by the homicide and by the whirlwind of interviews and questions following it. Talking to her and helping her through it had, as always, scratched the scabs off Billie’s personal wounds and left her feeling raw and exhausted as she fought to maintain the illusion that she was feeling detached sympathy and not a unifying empathy.

  Oddly, though, she hadn’t been as depleted as usual while driving Merissa around town. Instead, she’d felt her own emotions churning—not just resonating with Merissa’s, as Billie had come to expect, but diving and soaring on their own. Merissa needed Billie to explain how to process the alien emotions she was feeling, but she’d remained strong. The ordeal had left her vulnerable, but not fragile, and Billie felt respect for her. Beyond that, Billie’s response to Merissa wasn’t comfortable to acknowledge. She’d been sensitive to Merissa’s closeness and the heat of her skin the few times they touched. The scent of almonds and lavender lingered in the car, teasing Billie’s senses with its subtlety. Most of all, though, the sound of Merissa’s rich and melodious voice gave her goose bumps. She had the hint of an accent, but Billie couldn’t define it further than to say she sounded urbane. Cultured. With a trace of French thrown in. Merissa had been at times sad and silently raging and coldly numb, like most other victims Billie dealt with. Had she felt any attraction to Billie? The question was pointless, and Billie was angry with herself for even asking it.

  Billie had to stay focused on the words Merissa had used and not her delivery. Merissa’s voice made her want to tear Merissa’s clothes off right there in the patrol car. But what Merissa said about her plans to tear down the decrepit old city and transform it into something artificial and new left Billie cold. And the identification of the car had been a bucket of ice water.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’ll need to give a statement about the car, but then you should be able to go home. I’m sure you’re ready for a rest after all this.”

  Merissa got out of the car and followed Billie to the door. She hesitated before going through. “How do I get home? Dennis picked me up this morning, and I don’t have my car here.”

  Billie paused, holding the precinct door open. “We’ll arrange a ride for you. Or call you a cab if you’d rather. Or I can take you.” Billie wanted to pinch herself hard for offering, but she had an obligation to fulfill.

  “Are you sure?” Merissa’s voice was tinged with despair, but she seemed surprised again by her reaction and tried to downplay the relief Billie had seen on her face when she made the offer. “I guess I can go with you, if it’s not too much trouble?”

  It was way too much trouble. “Of course it’s not,” Billie said. Hargrove and the detectives on the case would be happy to have Billie spend more time with Merissa, hopefully prying more information from her. Billie, however, didn’t feel the same enthusiasm. “I just need to rearrange my schedule a little, and then I’ll be right back here to take you home.”

  Apparently reassured by her words, Merissa finally went into the precinct. Billie had already called in the information about the car, so she left Merissa with the detective in charge and made up an excuse about needing to stop by the police barn before she took Merissa back to her house. She felt Merissa watching her as she l
eft, but she didn’t look back.

  Instead of going to Point Defiance Park, where the police horses were stabled, Billie drove back the way she and Merissa had come. She saw two squad cars with flashing lights boxing in the brown Chrysler, and she turned into a back alley before the officers noticed her. She parked under an empty carport and jogged down the alley, keeping as close to the privacy and chain-link fences lining it as garbage cans and overgrown shrubs allowed. She wasn’t used to hiding while at work unless she was chasing a perp, and the action triggered old memories of sneaking through empty, shell-torn streets in dusty desert villages. Here in Tacoma, she would face only a reprimand or confused questioning if another officer saw her, but the feeling that a misstep might mean her life—illogical as it was in this setting—was difficult to ignore. Especially after a day of dealing with both Beth’s and Merissa’s traumatic memories. She had to stop once to lean against the faded wooden slats of a fence and brace her hands against her knees, taking slow, deep breaths until her heart rate and respiration were under control again.

  Merissa was pushing her out of her comfort zone, and out of her usual obedience to the authority figures and laws that governed her job. Normally when she talked with victims, Billie felt pulled even deeper into herself. She became aware of every fragile spot where her control was beginning to slip and her memories and pain were seeping through. She was more herself—raw and wounded. But it was different with Merissa. Merissa made her feel strong, made her expand outward, made her feel too many conflicting emotions. Annoyance at the cavalier way she was going to raze Tacoma and rebuilt it, fear that Merissa’s memories might hurt one of Billie’s friends, compassion for someone so clearly out of her element in the world of police and crime. Most of all, Billie had felt a tenderness so sharp it hurt. It reached out from her to everyone around her—Merissa, the owner of the brown car, and even herself. She was unrecognizable to herself after one short car ride with Merissa. Billie never would have come up with the plan to sneak down a back alley to avoid the cops before she met Merissa. But here she was, and she had to hurry.