times when she didn't need to hear from him. But now, when she wanted to hear news of their departure time, where the hell was he? She wanted to get out of Milwaukee, to put some distance between herself and the failed investigation, and the growing cancer of what appeared from the get-go as an un-solvable crime, a futile investigation-one that would never go away but remain on the open books forever.
Although fearing it a fantasy, perhaps some distance from the Olsen case might give her more perspective, the logic or illogic rather being that the farther she was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the more insightful, intuitive and clearheaded she'd become.
She struggled to clear her mind now, but try as she might, Jessica couldn't get the case out of her head. She tried concentrating on thoughts of Richard, tried thinking of their plans for the house, and for their bright future. She thought about her stable of horses back in Quantico, Virginia. She missed so much. She also fantasized a great fear as well, that some madman who made soups and stews of murdered women's bones lurked about Millbrook, Minnesota, and learning of the newly arrived FBI agent with a British accent and mild manner, hatched a plan of assassination borne of fear. She struggled to kill such thoughts at their inception. It was like living with the 9/11 fears of a terrorist on every street corner-simply an impossible ordeal for anyone. She forced herself to think instead of that sixteen-year-old furnished apartment of hers and how she'd had to give up all those comforting old furnishings so that she and Richard could find common furnishings they both could live with.
She stirred her coffee, listened to the light strain of New-Age music here, and gave her mind over to a great deal of decorating in the newly acquired old ranch house and stable that remained undone, given their competing schedules.
She next began to people watch both inside the shop and through the window, when her eyes lit on a large banner advertising a major new exhibit at the Hamilton Museum's Fine Arts Center. The exhibit featured some artist she had never heard of, a fellow by the name of Keith Orion, who billed himself as the “Professor of Shock Art.”
“Sounds more like a rock star than a painter, wouldn't you say?”
She saw Darwin's enormous shadow creep over her table, knowing it was him even before he'd spoken a word. Still, her look of surprise must have registered, as he hurled explanations at her.
“Sands told me at the morgue you'd gone out for air and coffee. Caribou is the only coffee shop on the block. I am, after all, a detective.”
“Obviously a regular bloodhound. I thought you said you'd call.” “I did.”
“You didn't.”
“I mean I said that I would, but since I had to come over to the morgue anyway… and I assumed you'd be there.” He sat across from her on an ancient-looking recently reupholstered paisley-patterned ottoman.
“Have we got clearance to use that FBI jet?”
“We do, but not until three-thirty.”
“But our meeting with the governor's at six, right? That's cutting things close, isn't it?”
“It's the best I could do. A commercial flight won't get us there any sooner,” he said, fingering the sandwich and desert menu.
The waitress came and he ordered a chicken salad sandwich and coffee. Alone again, he broke the silence. “Hey, I want to apologize again for this morning. I certainly don't want to cause trouble for you and yours.”
“No need to apologize, no problem.”
They sat in silence for an awkward moment. “So, since we have time to kill, why don't we walk across to the arts center and have a look at the new exhibit?” he suggested. “I live here and I never get to the museums.”
She considered this a moment, looked into his eyes and said, “No, I don't think so.”
“Come on, this is my town. Let me show you the finer side.”
She shook her head and then stared into his eyes again. “Reynolds, Detective Reynolds, our relationship has to remain on a-”
“-a professional level, I know that, but like I said, we've got two hours to kill. Trust me, Jessica, while I do find you attractive and intelligent, I have an Italian wife and three little girls.”
“Really? Photographs, let's see em.”
He pulled forth charming pictures of three girls ranging in age from four to seven. “Keep me hopping.”
“I'll bet.” She noticed he showed no photo of the wife.
“Children will keep you running on the one hand, grounded on the other, and all four of my girlfriends would bust my balls if I so much as looked at another woman.”
This made her laugh, and he joined in. “Sounds like you've got your hands full.”
“Oh, I do, I do!” H/s infectious smile is the irresistible part of him, that and his eyes, she thought, but she said, “What would she do to you if she knew you slept in my room the other night?” asked Jessica. “This Italian woman of yours?”
“Let's just say she wouldn't be as understanding as your friend Richard. Now that that's out of the way, how about we go see the Orion exhibit?”
“As soon as you finish your sandwich and coffee. I'll just go freshen up, Darwin. I like your name, Darwin.”
“Given to me by my adoptive parents,” he replied. “My adoptive parents were great people who happened to be black like me. I had a good childhood once I got hooked up with them. Prior to that… not so good.”
She dared not ask about the not so good, at least not here and now.
“So you like 'Darwin?” he asked.
“Yeah, interesting choice your parents made.”
“You mean it beats 'Thomas,' ” he joked. “I'll put a stop to the proposed name change proceedings.” Something jammed with sadness flitted across his eyes. The big black man sitting before her dropped his gaze. She thought she might see a tear fall into his coffee if she watched long enough.
She changed the subject. “I think an art museum opening would be just the thing to feed my child. It's a ritual I must go through so I have something positive to report to my therapist.”
“I hear you.”
“I suppose we both could use a break from this case.”
He nodded, looking up again at her, having regained himself, in control. “I'm with you.”
“But nature calls first. Be right back.”
He waved her off, dabbing at his eye with a napkin.
Inside the restroom, she stared at herself in the mirror for the second time today and said, “You damn sure still know how to make a fucking fool of yourself, Doctor Jessica 'Sensitive' Coran.”
But for the life of her, she could not decipher what had made Reynolds tear up.
ELEVEN
The body snatchers they have come
And made a snatch at me… Don't go to weep upon my grave.
And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomy!
On the train to Chicago, Giles slept sitting up. He hadn't had much sleep since killing Lucinda, and fatigue now washed over him in waves. Drowsy, his eyes glazed over and his mind went numb with the steady sound and vibration underfoot of the train as it wended its way along the tracks toward downtown Chicago. As the train picked up speed and stormed toward the Windy City, he replayed the way things had unfolded, how he had killed Lucinda, his own benefactress.
He had thought her knocked unconscious with the hammer blow, but when he'd relaxed his vigilance, believing her completely subdued, she'd pulled free and rushed to his workbench, frantically searching for a weapon among his tools, knocking over an array of knives and sculpting tools. She screamed amid the panting, but she
