occurred in the middle of a shoe store stockroom.
On the far wall, through the bathroom doorway, I could see that the medicine chest had pretty much been ransacked. Judging from the terrycloth mass I spotted on the floor just in front of the double vanity, the linen closet hadn’t been spared either.
Standing here surveying the blatant deconstruction of our lives, I didn’t even want to think about what the office, or even worse, my wife’s darkroom and files, looked like right about now. There was so much strife here on the main floor that I wasn’t entirely certain I could stomach going upstairs or downstairs just yet.
At this point, however, there was no doubt in my mind that someone, whether it was Albright or not, had instructed the crime scene technicians to lay waste to our home. I’d been involved in far too many investigations and had seen how these things were normally done. What I saw staring back at me now definitely wasn’t an example of standard procedure.
My rising anger eventually gave way to a cold swell of depression, and I simply hung my head. After a moment I pushed a pile of shirts aside with a distracted swipe of my hand then slowly settled myself onto the edge of the bed.
I couldn’t begin to say exactly what all had been taken, with the exception of the books and a handgun that was registered to me. The only reason I knew about the weapon was because they had seen fit to tell me they were going to confiscate it for the time being. I didn’t know why, but I had already discovered that arguing with them over the books didn’t do any good, so I didn’t bother to object.
I also knew for a fact that some of Felicity’s clothing and shoes had been removed because I saw them being loaded into evidence bags while I was standing on the outside looking in. From what little I overheard, intimate garments had been of particular interest and in fact, were even specifically listed on the warrant. I’m sure the reasoning for that probably had everything to do with the sexual nature of the crimes.
Even though I knew my wife wasn’t one to be easily embarrassed, I certainly didn’t know how she would react to a handful of strangers looting her lingerie drawer. For some reason, the fact that they had encroached upon this particular sanctity made me feel more violated than any of the other things they had manhandled and then absconded with. Surprisingly, even the desecration of our altar no longer mattered in the face of this. Odd, considering that they weren’t even my undergarments, but I was in a very protective mode right now. Anything that violated Felicity was, to me, patently unforgivable.
I heard a damp snort and looked over to see our English setter staring at me with sad eyes. Taking a tentative step forward, he nudged my hand then nuzzled in and brought his head to rest on my thigh. I absently stroked his crown and gave him a half-hearted scritch behind the ears. Usually, Quigley the Australian cattle dog was hot on his heels, but last I’d seen him he was sitting in the dining room looking just about as confused as the cats.
Our animals were as close as we had to children-not that we hadn’t tried for one of our own species. Unfortunately, Felicity’s only pregnancy to date had been abruptly terminated by a physical altercation between her and a murder suspect who was making a getaway attempt. Since then, even though everything checked out for both of us according to doctors, we hadn’t had much luck in the conception department.
In truth, it was probably a good thing that we didn’t have children because I had the feeling that right now I would be completely lost. I could easily comfort a dog with a few pats on the head even if he could still sense that something was amiss. On the other hand, I had no clue what I could possibly tell a child that would quell his or her fears in a situation such as this.
“Mommy is going to go with the nice policemen for a while,” just didn’t seem to me like it would do the trick. And, right now, saying something like “Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay” could very well be a flat-out lie. Primarily, because I wasn’t so sure that it was going to be okay. On top of that, I knew that my own mental state wouldn’t be particularly healthy for a child to endure either.
I looked down at the dog, only to find his large brown eyes peering back up at me. As he watched, the small sprigs of hair that passed for eyebrows began rocking back and forth on his expressive face then his tail began slowly thumping against the side of the bed.
“Kind of a mess, isn’t it, buddy?” I mumbled, turning my head and looking around the room while my hand continued automatically stroking his fur.
My brain was more or less chasing itself around in a circle at this point. What I felt like I wanted to do right now was to jump in my truck and head down to the police station. But, that was just the surface reaction. What I truly wanted more than anything else was Felicity back home, safe and free of this insanity. Short of “busting her out,” there wasn’t really much I could do to make that happen. At least not by showing up there and causing a scene, anyway. Since Jackie had told me to stay put, I had no choice but to fight back the urge to make a beeline for Clark Avenue downtown.
Our attorney was certainly right about one thing. I would definitely cause more trouble than anything else, and I knew that. I just had to trust her to take care of this, but that was becoming harder to do with each passing moment. A quick glance at the clock told me that better than two hours had passed since she had told me she was on her way to the police station, and I still hadn’t heard anything from her. I suppose that in the grand scheme of things, two hours isn’t really that much time, but for me it had already been an eternity.
As I continued looking around the room, my eyes fell on a picture frame resting in a niche on our headboard. From all outward appearances, it was apparently the only thing that hadn’t been touched by the uncaring hands of the crime scene technicians. The frame was small but intricately designed-the kind of heirloom that readily evokes sentimentality at first glance. Centered within its rectangular border was a semi-candid shot of Felicity and me.
I stared at the photo, studying it to the exclusion of everything around me. Though I had pretty much forgotten that it was there, I remembered the snapshot well. It had been taken at a party some years before. My petite wife was perched on my lap with her arms around my neck, and mine were encircling her waist, hugging her close. We were both grinning, obviously filled to overflowing with the happiness of the moment. The vivid memory played back inside my skull as I recalled the gathering. What stood out most of all was the fact that only moments before that particular photo had been snapped, we had all been playing the “trust game”. In essence, it was an old pseudo-psychological exercise where you demonstrate your trust in your partner by falling backwards into their arms. We had all really just been clowning around, but in truth, there was an underlying seriousness to the results.
Almost all of the people at the get-together had faltered to some extent, much to one another’s chagrin. However, Felicity and I had fallen freely into one another without hesitation and without so much as a flinch of doubt. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, as it simply seemed natural, but in the final analysis these were acts of absolute, blind faith. We both knew that neither of us would allow any harm to befall the other. I trusted her, she trusted me.
Trust. A concept I had only recently been forced by my overactive psyche to revisit. Fortunately, the reminder had taken hold and flourished.
I trusted in the fact that I knew Felicity was innocent, and moreover, I trusted her. Just as, even at this moment she was trusting me. Trusting me to take care of her, to get her out of this mess. But, instead of honoring that trust, here I was perched on the edge of the bed, feeling sorry for myself because she wasn’t here.
I’m not sure how long I had been sitting there staring at the photograph. To be perfectly honest, it could have been a minute, or it could have been five. My perception of time was so far off kilter that I probably wouldn’t have known the difference between the two even if I had been watching the clock instead of the picture.
However, when my epiphany finally forced my reticent gaze to loosen its grip on me, I slowly turned back to the canine using my lap as a pillow and looked into his eyes again.
I shook my head and muttered to him, “Dammit…What the hell am I doing here? Watch the house. I’ve got to go.”
I had already shrugged into my coat and tapped in the code to set the house alarm when the phone began to ring.
CHAPTER 8:
