december 25, 1996
At 6 a.m., Clare made the drive across the San Rafael Bridge into Oakland to the address she’d scrawled on a scrap of paper. A cold rain slicked the roads and spotted her windshield. On any other day, traffic would’ve backed up for miles—all those careful drivers—but today, there was no one. Merry Christmas, Clare.
She put the radio on full blast to drown out the voice in her head. But it felt useless. Rodney Taylor had set up permanent shop there. And today, he was relentless. Fresh from their call last night.
“Rodney Taylor, Green River Trucking. How can I help?” He’d answered on the first ring. An eager beaver.
“Hel—lo.” The word got stuck halfway up and Clare had to force it out, will it from her throat.
“Clare? Clare Keely?” His excitement sickened her.
“Hi, Mr. Taylor—uh, Rodney.” Almost as much as her deference. Her submission.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I need to see you. Tomorrow. It’s … it’s urgent.”
The catch in his breath told her what she needed to know. He would be there. Anywhere she asked. “On Christmas Day?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“Are you in trouble, Clarie?”
She forced a little sob into the receiver. Fake, but it came from someplace real. “I can’t talk about it on the phone.”
“Is this why you called here a few weeks ago? You were upset. You—”
“I miss you,” she said. “I think about you all the time.” That would get him back on track. She could picture him sitting on the edge of his recliner, practically salivating. Already aroused with anticipation. “Just like way back when, you know?”
“I do know. More than you can imagine. Where should we meet?”
Clare pulled up to the gate. The freshly painted sign marked Green River Trucking assured her she had the right place. But she already knew. Rodney’s silver BMW took up the space in front of her. New tire, of course. She undid the top two buttons of her silk blouse, hiked up her skirt, and shook out her hair ready for Plan A. Seduction. Then she reached across the seat and popped the glove box taking her backup plan firmly in her hand.
Years ago, Neal had laughed at her, then hugged her too tight when she’d told him she’d bought a gun. What for? he’d asked her, not even trying to hide his melancholy. Just in case. Because she couldn’t admit she’d lost time imagining it pressed to Rodney’s skull. That she’d pulled the trigger a thousand times in her mind. The real reason she kept to herself. She had a gun because someday she intended to use it.
****
On the phone, Rodney told her he’d relocated to Oakland to cut costs, but from the looks of it, he was doing just fine. Better than fine actually, silver Bimmer notwithstanding. Clare hunkered under her umbrella, passing a fleet of shiny big rigs on her way to the door. She took one last glance at the sky, wishing for thunder and lightning bolts. Weather fit for her plan. But it rarely stormed that way in California. She’d have to settle for fat, relentless raindrops and puddles of mud.
Rodney waited for her inside, swiveling on his leather office chair like a nervous teenager. Decked out in an awful oatmeal sweater and khakis he’d outgrown years ago. She could tell he’d tried. He looked her up and down, grinning wide, clownish. “You look like an angel—a Christmas angel.”
“I’m not an angel,” she said, swaying her hips as she moved toward him.
He didn’t get up. He just stared at her standing over him like maybe she really was an angel. Or the ghost of Christmas past, dragging the heavy chain of his sins behind her. Finally, he put his hands on her hips—she let him this one last time—and closed his eyes. He moaned to himself, as if she wasn’t there at all. “You’re a fallen angel, Clare. Sent to drag me back down to hell.”
“I’m a person, Rodney. A fucked-up person. But, when you met me, I was a little girl.”
His hand dropped, and he pushed away from her, wheels rolling back toward the wall. “You were thirteen. And you didn’t act like a little girl. I mean, look at you. I didn’t do anything you didn’t want me to, Clarie.”
She froze for a moment. Her heart went still. She’d forgotten how expertly he leveled her with one measly sentence. Sentences she’d been hearing on repeat for what felt like her whole life. “What about when you raped me? When you broke your promise? What about that?”
He lowered his head like a scolded puppy. “I loved you. I just couldn’t wait anymore. Not when you were about to give it up anyway to some horny teenybopper. I’m sorry I hurt you, but you can’t still be mad about that. It happened years ago.”
Clare reached behind her back and showed him the gun. Pointed it right at his balding head and watched his bottom lip start to quiver. It was the best thing she’d ever seen. “I got pregnant, Rodney. You got me pregnant. I was sixteen years old when I had your baby on the floor in a bathroom. It was a girl. And I killed her and buried her and never told anybody while you forgot all about me and started screwing some cheerleader in the back of your fancy car. So yeah, I’m still mad about that.”
“Jesus Christ, Clare. You should’ve told me. I would’ve helped you … take care of it.”
“I’m telling you now. And you’re going to help me. You’re going to give me whatever I ask. Understand?” She pushed the gun flush with his skin, making a round, red indentation in the flesh. His face crumpled and he started to cry. “Answer me.”
“Okay, okay.” His tears were hot and ugly and mixed with snot and sweat. Clare felt proud she’d never let him see her this way. “Whatever you want. Anything.”
“I need fifty thousand dollars in cash by Saturday and a truck to take me across the Mexican border.”
She thought he might laugh. It sounded made-up. Like a scene from a cheesy Bruce Willis movie, the kind that would’ve been his favorite. At the very least, she expected some questions. But he just nodded. “Please put the gun down. Please.”
“I’m not done yet.”
“Please, Clarie. I love you.” And she knew he did in the sick, twisted way he taught her.
“Me. The cheerleader. Those are the two I know about. Have there been any others since then? Were you doing this to Lisa too?” His pathetic crying slowed like a dripping faucet, and he looked everywhere but at her.
“Not to Lisa. No.”
“But to someone else?”
His shoulders shrugged almost indiscernibly. “It was always you, Clare. You were the first. The one I really wanted. I never got over you.”
“How many?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. One or two, I guess. A man has needs, you know?” Did she ever. “But I stopped. I stopped. I stopped!”
She didn’t take her eyes off him—not for one second—because she needed to remember this moment. Every quivering, sniveling detail. It had to sustain her. “Goodbye, Rodney.” And then, she pulled the trigger.
****
Clare sat in her car letting the rain fall in sheets around her. She felt sheltered there. No one could see her cry. The tears were not for herself. Well, maybe a little. But mostly for the girls who came after. My fault. She couldn’t help but think it. When she’d exhausted herself, she opened the ashtray, picked out the bullets she put there for safekeeping, and reloaded the clip.
Slow and careful, she unwrapped the memory savoring that empty click of the trigger. The way Rodney shuddered before he realized he wasn’t dead at all. It’s not gonna be that easy, asshole. You owe me. But mostly, the way he looked at her, revered her. Like she was God. Or the devil. Or something in between. And he knew she had the power now. Power to give life, power to take it away. And someday, she intended to use it.
december 26, 1996
The day after Christmas. Ugh. It always irked Clare with its way-too-jolly, overstuffed, post-h
oliday hangover vibe. On December 25, people went underground, leaving the streets as bare as the end of the world. She could pretend the world belonged to her alone, her own private snow globe minus the snow. Even when Neal had invited her home with him last year and the year before that, she’d politely declined. It crushed him every time, but it was better that way. The last thing she needed was Neal picturing family ski trips with hot cocoa and fireplace chats and matching parkas for their 2.5 children. She’d learned to stomach the 25th. But the 26th, it was entirely villainous in the way it slapped Clare in the face with her utter aloneness.
But today, this December 26, Clare felt like she could fly. Five-mile run on an empty stomach—effortless. She imagined wings stretching out behind her, one gust away from liftoff. She even called Lizzie at home because she knew she wouldn’t be there. Lizzie did the holidays big like everybody else. Merry Christmas, Liz, she said at the beep. Talk soon. A big, fat lie, but that twinge of guilt couldn’t slow her down. Lizzie would be just fine without her.
Clare had the day off, of course, but she made the drive to San Quentin anyway, speeding down the blank slate of highway, humming “Jingle Bells” to herself. She cleared the gate with a smile, rattling off an excuse about loads of paperwork to catch up on. As soon as she arrived at her office, she dialed South Block and summoned the Bear. Then, she waited.
The hours dragged at her wings, weighing her down. She read client files and polished up her notes. Not that it really mattered anyway. Not anymore. But it meant something to Clare. She didn’t want anyone thinking she’d done a lousy job, shirked her responsibilities. She thought of Fitzpatrick, what he might say to the authorities afterward. Did she screw her client? Sure. Help him break out of prison? Yep. But at least she kept good notes.
Her high-pitched giggle—the first sound of life she’d heard all afternoon—startled her. Like it came from someone else. But then again, she felt like someone else.
“Clare? Are you in there?” Her heart leapt, and her eyes darted. Nowhere to hide.
“Dr. Fitzpatrick? Yes, it’s me.” His shadow loomed behind the beveled glass. She would’ve rather it’d been Ramirez or one of his cronies with a strangled bird in hand.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
She raced to the door, eager to be rid of him. “I just popped in. I forgot my … ” She scanned the room. “ … scarf.”
“I see.” He stared at the stack of files on her desk.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him.
“I was just asking myself the same question. I suppose I didn’t feel up to being alone. It’s my first Christmas since the divorce, you know. And I’m not much for shopping. So … ” He shrugged. “Here I am. Pathetic, huh?”
She patted his arm, giving a smile. Underneath the fine, dark hair, his skin had the color of alabaster, and the effort required to touch him—the mental teeth gritting—clipped her wings completely. Clare was earthbound again. “I know what you mean. It can get lonely this time of year.”
He looked at her hand when it rested briefly on his forearm. Instead of the lurid grin she expected, he eyed it like an alien claw sent to gut him. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Okay.” She heard heavy footsteps clunking in the hall behind him. The way a bear would sound if it found its way to her office in San Quentin.
“The other day when you got that dry cleaning slip, you said Cullen worked in the laundry, right?” She made a noncommittal sound and strained to hear past him. There was nothing. “But I checked, and he’s been assigned to building maintenance.”
“Oh.”
Fitzpatrick came inside and pulled the door shut behind him. He hadn’t even accused her yet, and her face already flushed. “Remember how I told you I worked at a women’s prison?” Clare nodded.“Well, I was young back then, and believe it or not, I was a bit of a scoundrel. There was this inmate. Teresa Moretti. A real looker. She was in on a murder charge. Bashed in her boyfriend’s head, when she got tired of being his punching bag. I took a liking to her, Clare. And she knew it. I almost crossed the line.”
She waited for him to say the thing he was thinking, but he didn’t. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“It’s not unusual to be attracted to a client. Or a supervisee, for that matter. That story is as old as dirt. It’s what you do with it that counts. You know what my supervisor told me when he caught on to my little crush? ‘Fitz,’ he’d said, ‘I’d hate to see you be one of those losers they have to walk off prison grounds because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.’”
“What did you do?”
“Between you and me?” He stepped closer to her, and leaned in until she could smell the faint odor of tobacco on him. She’d never seen him smoke before, and it made her wonder if she’d figured him all wrong. Just as suddenly, he pulled away. “Nothing. My supervisor transferred her to another therapist. A newbie. That poor sucker never stood a chance. He got walked off three months later.”
“So him and her?”
“Yep. Turns out it wasn’t me she had a thing for. She just liked to play the game. And they always win, Clare. No matter how good it feels in the moment, they always win.”
Clare felt her wings flutter with new life, brought back from the dead with a jolt and a spark of indignation. Fitzpatrick thought he knew her. Worse, he thought her no different than him. “Thank you for telling me. Come Monday, you can reassign Cullen. I think it’s for the best.” The beginnings of a smug smile tugged at his lips, so she went all in. “And how about next week we finally grab that drink?”
****
With Fitzpatrick tucked away inside his office, visions of next week’s cocktails dancing in his head, Clare peeked down the hallway. No one. She inched the length of it, as quiet as she could until she reached the stairwell. At the bottom, the Bear leaned against the wall like he belonged there. Like the pillar of his broad back held up the entire building. She cleared her throat to get his attention and gestured wordlessly to the bathroom. Then she slipped inside.
She stared at the white throat of the toilet as she waited for her breathing to quicken, her heartbeat to race. She’d avoided this place, walking the extra floor up to the larger bathroom since Ramirez cornered her here—since she’d cowered on the cold tile in the throes of another flashback. Flashback. Another pointless term her therapist couldn’t get enough of. I don’t like that word, she told him once. It wasn’t so much a flash as an unraveling. One solid tug on the perpetual thread of an ancient memory, and she came apart at all her seams.
But her heartbeat stayed steady, the push and pull of her breath calm, even when Raul Torres slipped a hand inside the door and lumbered into the space that was much too small for the two of them.
“Qué pasa?”
“Have you made up your mind?” she asked him.
His eyes were dark slits, impossible to read. “I’m interested.”
“So you do speak English then?” Clare felt a need to poke him just a little.
“You’re so smart, Doctor. Muy inteligente.”
“I am smart,” she said, an uncontrollable grin taking over her face. “That’s why you’re going to owe me one when I tell you my plan. Agreed?”
“Tell me the plan, then we talk terms.”
Clare shook her head. “That’s not how it works. I have something you need. But you have something I need.”
He ran his hand across his monstrous belly and down his crotch, rubbing himself. “Do I?”
“Keep that up, and I’ll press this.” She drew an alarm from her pocket, and his hand stilled. “Unless you want to explain how you ended up in the women’s bathroom, fondling yourself in front of a staff member.”
He mulled it over, muttering under his breath. “Puta.”
She shrugged. “You don’t have to like me. As long as you play by the rul
es, I’ll help you keep your precious paquete from Ramirez and maybe even get rid of a few EME. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes. Entiendo. So what is it that you need, puta? A bullet in somebody’s head?”
“Two passports—legitimate looking. You have people on the outside who can do that, right?”
“My people can do anything if the price is right.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
****
Clare didn’t want the day to end. As long as she didn’t sleep, the spell would never break. And she would be strong and fierce and on the verge of another life. One where Rodney Taylor didn’t exist, had never existed. She fished the envelope Cullen gave her out of her purse and opened it, taking the picture in her hand. In it, he’d stood alone, against the mural in the Corcoran visiting room. “A buddy of mine took it a few years ago,” he’d told her. “It’s the only picture I’ve got.”
“It will work,” she told him, her voice already thick with longing for the weight of him pressed on top of her. But they had to be careful—even more careful—now. And she’d walked away burning. Before she drove home, she sat in her car and watched the waves come in and out until she worried someone might see her and wonder.
She set the picture on her pillow. Cullen’s eyes looked back until hers were too heavy to keep open. Eyes so blue it seemed the entire sky lived inside of him.
chapter
twenty-eight
graveyard
Levi ripped the first few pages out of the folder marked Classified and stuffed them inside his jacket. Together, we headed for the door. “I don’t think we can trust McKinnon.” He paused and answered the question I didn’t ask. “And no, I’m not just saying that because she wants to arrest me.”
“We don’t know how that file got here.”
“Maybe you don’t. But I’m pretty sure Rodney Taylor didn’t steal it himself.”
“You’re saying she gave it to him?”
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 29