Tattooed

by Pamela Callow

  He shook his head. “No. But I do remember a case that involved a girl who went missing on Halloween… It haunted me… .” His voice trailed off.

  “Why? She wasn’t your client, was she?”

  Marian MacAdam flashed through her mind. Don’t go there, Kate.

  Eddie stirred the pasta in the pot, studying its contents as if the answer lay in there. “No. This girl—Heather Rigby was her name—went missing the year my daughter was born. I remember cuddling this fragile, vulnerable baby to my chest and feeling horror-stricken that someone else’s daughter could just disappear like that. Heather was the kind of girl you’d want your own kid to grow up to be.” Eddie sounded as if he had known her. Kate suspected he had studied the case carefully, applying his incisive mind to the facts, parsing the details, trying to find an answer to a terrifying question.

  And did your daughter grow up to be like her? Kate wanted to ask. But she didn’t. She never would remind Eddie of what he had lost. Thrown away, was how he put it.

  “And this girl was never found?”

  Eddie shook his head. “No. There was a lot of media coverage—and even more false leads.” He drained the pasta in a colander. “I wonder if this discovery will give them something solid.”

  “Do you think it could be her?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Hard to say. On the one hand, I hope it is—her family would finally get closure. They never gave up looking for her, you know.” He turned away, busying himself with the act of serving their meal. Kate took the garlic bread out of the oven, and placed it on a wooden cutting board. She now knew Randall’s kitchen as well as her own, having mooched more than a few meals from Eddie.

  Eddie set the plates on the granite counter. A typical bachelor, he didn’t use the table. At least he sat down to eat, Kate thought. They settled down with steaming plates of Bolognese, topped with the freshly grated parmigiano.

  “On the other hand, I hope it isn’t this girl,” Eddie said, as if he hadn’t trailed off five minutes before. He twirled spaghetti on his fork. “Especially if it turns out whoever was found in that peat bog met a violent death. I know many families want to have closure, but sometimes not knowing is better than knowing.”

  Tell me about it.

  “So,” Eddie mumbled through a mouthful of spaghetti, “what is your itinerary for your trip to Europe?”

  Kate took a sip of water. Eddie never served wine and Kate never offered to bring any. “Well, Nat and I decided that we’d each choose a country and surprise each other.”

  Eddie arched a brow. “That could either be a spectacular idea or…” He dug a spoon into the bowl of grated parmigiano and sprinkled even clumps over his meat sauce. “Let me guess, Italy was your pick?”

  Kate grinned. “Uh-huh. I’m all about the food.”

  “And Nat?”

  “England. I have a feeling I’ll be tramping through a lot of old castles. She’s obsessed with the history there. And the whole royalty thing. She’s hoping to see Kate Middleton’s wedding gown.” Kate rolled her eyes. She would never admit it, but she wanted to see it, too.

  “From the sounds of it—” Eddie shook the saltshaker vigorously over his pasta “—each of you choosing a country to plan the itinerary falls into the ‘spectacular idea’ category. You are each passionate about different things—could be very educational for both of you.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  Eddie snorted. “Kate, you don’t need a fat old fart like me trailing you around the streets of Italy.”

  Kate put down her fork and stared at Eddie. “What are you talking about? You are not an old fart.”

  Eddie shook his head. “I am, Kate. I’m overweight. I chain-smoke. I’m fifty-three years old. Not only that, I’m a recovering alcoholic—”

  Kate tried not to let her concern show on her face. Eddie rarely sought sympathy, but he seemed to be fighting the blues tonight.

  “Who still has a full head of hair—” Darn, that didn’t even garner a smile. She plowed on. “Who is also a brilliant criminal defense lawyer, and a pretty mean cook.” She bit into her garlic bread and, trying to sound casual, mumbled, “Something happen today?”

  He stirred his spaghetti around his plate. “No.”

  Kate hesitated. They were good friends, but she usually stayed away from the-inner-life-of-Eddie-Bent territory. But there was pain vibrating beneath the surface of his rumpled exterior. She sipped her water. “So what’s up?”

  He patted his pocket. Then dropped his hand. She wasn’t sure if he hadn’t pulled out his cigarettes out of courtesy to her, or if he belatedly remembered Randall’s strict prohibition on smoking in his house. The silence between them reminded Kate of when she was little and would sit outside at twilight, holding her breath and wondering if the crickets would sing.

  Eddie pushed his chair away from the counter. It scraped against the floor. He made to rise, but then slumped against the back of his chair. “It’s my anniversary today.”

  Oh…

  Kate’s heart constricted. Eddie never talked about his wife, but it was love, not hate, that stilled his tongue.

  “I’m sorry.” Kate put her hand on Eddie’s arm.

  He gave her a bleak smile. “So am I.”

  “Have you spoken to her recently?” Kate asked.

  He shook his head. “She told me not to call her.”

  “But she knows you are going to AA and everything, right, Eddie?”

  I know what you are trying to suggest, but it is too late, his eyes said.

  “She knows you’re practicing again, right?”

  He shrugged. “I’m sending her checks for Brianna’s support, so I presume she has put two and two together.”

  “Maybe she hasn’t… .”

  He ran a hand over his breast pocket, his fingers caressing the shape of the cigarette package. He pushed his fingers through his hair. “It doesn’t matter, Kate. She doesn’t love me anymore.”

  He said it simply. Matter-of-factly. Without an ounce of self-pity or anger.

  But the pain in those shrewd, nonjudgmental eyes of his killed Kate.

  “I’m sorry, Eddie.” Kate didn’t know what else to say.

  “Don’t be, Kate. It was my fault.”

  Anger at this unknown woman and the pain she was causing this man who was trying so hard to put his life back together shot through Kate. “What about forgiveness? Isn’t the word in Elaine’s vocabulary?”

  “It was once,” Eddie said. “But I’ve had to ask for it too many times, Kate. Every time you ask, it loses its elasticity. Eventually it just snaps like a worn rubber band.”

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his cigarette pack. “If you will excuse me, I need to obscure my thoughts in a haze of smoke… .”

  Kate hated to see her friend kill himself on cigarettes—

  he’d started wheezing lately on stairs, and she had promised herself that she would wean him off them this year—but at that moment, she was grateful for anything to help him forget.

  “Go ahead. I’ll wash up.”

  There wasn’t a lot to do. For a man so disheveled, Eddie was a surprisingly orderly cook. Kate loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, put away the leftovers and cleaned the counters.

  It was strange to think that eight months ago, she had stood in this kitchen with a different man, a man so tortured that he had thrown a phone through the window, a man so haunted that he had taken his children to New York… .

  Had he called?

  She had left her cell phone at home. Deliberately. So she couldn’t obsessively check it for messages.

  For God’s sake, Kate, stop acting like you’re in high school.

  She hung up the dish towel and walked out to the front porch. It was strange that Eddie didn’t sit in Randall’s back garden to smoke, but Kate guessed that Eddie needed to look outward.

  The dogs lounged by his feet. Both thumped their tails, a lazy drumming on the porch boards, as
Kate lowered herself into the matching Adirondack chair.

  “I never asked you how you are doing on the drunk-driving case.”

  Eddie knew her history. He knew the challenge for Kate to stay objective.

  “It’s going fine. I’m hoping they’ll settle. But today I met with a new client I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?” He turned to look at her. “You look worried.”

  “Confused is more like it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  And Kate knew that, despite whatever was bothering him, Eddie was listening. He always did. “Randall referred a new client to me.”

  “Frances Sloane?”

  “How did you know?”

  “He called me just before supper. He was concerned about you.”

  “Oh, really?” Kate bent down to pat Alaska’s head so Eddie couldn’t see her face.

  “He said you knew her. From a long time ago.”

  Kate glanced away. “Yes.”

  “It was good of you to see her, Kate.”

  Kate threw him a glance. So Randall had obviously told him of her history with the Sloane family.

  “I like her. I feel sorry for her. She’s dying. She asked to see me. How could I say no?” She gave a wry smile. “Besides, I thought it would be a one-time deal.”

  “It isn’t?”

  Kate exhaled. “No. Yes. Well, from a legal perspective, it’s over. But she asked me to help lobby an M.P. to change a law.” She was bound by solicitor-client privilege to not say more. But she wished she could have Eddie’s insight.

  Eddie blew out a cloud of smoke, away from Kate. “And did you agree?”

  “No.”

  Eddie turned to look at her. “Why not?”

  A flush heated Kate’s cheeks. “I’m not a lobbyist, Eddie. I have no desire to become one. I would be terrible at it, anyway.”

  He said nothing.

  “Besides, I’m not sure what I think about the whole thing.”

  “You mean about helping someone kill herself?”

  Kate bit the inside of her cheek. “I killed my sister, Eddie.”

  He shot her an admonishing look. “Kate, it was an accident—”

  “I’ve had enough of death and destruction.”

  “But the philosophy behind assisted suicide is to allow people to die with dignity. Peacefully.” Light was fading fast. Eddie tapped the glowing ember on the end of his cigarette, the ashes reminding Kate of a dying star. “You’ve seen your share of violent deaths. Perhaps this an opportunity to change that.”

  “Eddie, I don’t want to screw this up for Frances Sloane. This is too important. I don’t know the first thing about lobbying. She told me that she thinks I’ll be successful because I’m ‘famous,’ but I don’t think that’s true.” She watched the mist drape itself along a branch, the water globules suspended from its underside. Eventually they would crash to the ground or evaporate.

  What would it be? Crash? Or fade away?

  “Why don’t you think it’s true?” The question drifted through the twilight.

  “I don’t think my fame will change people’s minds. And besides, I really don’t want to dredge that all up again. It was one of the worst periods of my life.” Kate clipped the leashes on the dogs. They lumbered to their feet. Alaska nosed Kate’s thigh. “Nietzsche sums it up pretty well—Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster… .”

  “So you think if you become an activist for assisted suicide you will become the Angel of Death?”

  “Of course not.” Kate pushed a wisp of mist-curled hair off her face. “I agree in principle with assisted suicide. I just don’t want to be the one fighting the fight.”

  Eddie pushed himself to his feet. He stood next to her, feet planted wide as if the wooden planks of the porch were a ship’s deck, gazing at the mist that shrouded Randall’s front garden. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I was playing devil’s advocate. I obviously touched a nerve.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. The cigarette came perilously close to her sleeve. “I don’t think you should do this. You’ve been through too much. You need time to heal.” His voice sank. “And…you need to forgive yourself.”

  For what? Killing two people? Not saving someone else?

  “Gotta run,” she said. “Thanks for dinner. It’s my turn next.”

  He nodded. “I’m expecting you to use that new pasta maker.”

  “First I’ve got to baptize my new roasting pan,” she said, tugging on the dogs’ leashes.

  The mist had become heavy, on the verge of drizzle. The therapeutic effects of her earlier run had disintegrated with the cigarette ash on the porch. She sprinted up the hill, desperate to reclaim some equanimity. A full stomach and two tired dogs made for a long slog home.

  Her feet pounded on the wet pavement. Her mind pounded on her conscience. She did not want another stain on her soul, no matter the reason. Eddie thought it would bring peace, but she wasn’t so sure. She thought it was more likely to bring nightmares of the Body Butcher variety.

  She was no Angel of Death.

  7

  The headlights of Kenzie Sloane’s rental car swooped over the curve of the long driveway to what was once her family home. The family had dispersed years ago, and had disintegrated long before that. Now, the lone occupant of the stunning architectural structure was her mother. And for how much longer, nobody knew.

  Tall, spindly evergreens flashed into view, receding as the headlights found new targets. Kenzie’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Foo Dog, her black pug, was barely visible in the dark, but she was grateful for his solid presence. She hadn’t been home in seventeen years. She had never wanted to return.

  Still didn’t.

  But here she was.

  Why?

  Was it her brother’s email? The years spent inking memorial tattoos on grieving clients?

  No. It had been the sound of her mother’s voice on the phone. Her voice but not her voice. Maybe that was why she had been so disarmed: she hadn’t recognized it. That shocking, slurring, nasal voice. “Kenzie. Please come home.” A pause. An audible swallow. Then the plea that sealed the deal: “I want to see you once before I die.”

  Guilt came crashing out of nowhere.

  Years ago, when Kenzie had made her escape, her mother had written her. Angry and hurt, Kenzie had never opened the letters. But instead of tossing them in the trash, she’d scribbled, “Return to Sender” on them. Her mother had gotten the message.

  Kenzie hadn’t heard from her in seventeen years.

  Although she had heard from her brother three times. Once to inform her that their parents had split. There had been no avoiding the accusation that lay behind those words. The second time was to tell her that her father had remarried. There had been no mistaking her brother’s glee. And the last missive had come via email. He had contacted her through her online blog site KOI to inform her that, “Mom has ALS and will die in the next year. She doesn’t know I’m contacting you. And God knows you are the last person I want my children to meet, but out of respect for her I am asking that you come home to say your goodbyes.”