Time of Death

Catherine gasped. ‘Oh, Lord. Where?’

‘In Nogales, Mexico. He was decapitated and his body was burned.’

Catherine paused. ‘That’s shocking. But…I’m relieved.’

‘This is not going to be easy, but I’d like to explore the possibility that your attack was linked to the death of your husband…’

Silence. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I don’t have any evidence,’ said Ren, ‘but your family was targeted twice in the space of two weeks and…do you have any links to Mexico? Have you vacationed there?’

‘No. The last time I was in Mexico was twenty years ago.’

‘And what about your husband?’

‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘And when he traveled for business, it was just within Texas.’

‘What about your sons? Did they have any reason to go to Mexico – maybe with friends’ families, field trips from school…?’

‘No. They always vacationed with us. Luke, our seventeen-year-old, went on his first solo trip at spring break, but that was to San Diego State to visit his college. He’s…was…starting at San Diego State. He’s going to study law.’ Her voice cracked.

‘So he went alone?’

‘No, I meant he went without the family, but he wasn’t alone – he went with three friends. They were checking out the facilities, the libraries…probably a few of the girls.’

‘No doubt,’ said Ren. ‘Can I get his friends’ names from you?’

‘Sure…but I don’t see how…’

‘Well, it won’t do any harm. Look, Catherine, Luke’s missing, and his friends know him best.’

‘OK,’ said Catherine. ‘His friends are…John Reiff, Ben Racono and Mark Bayne. I’ll get you their numbers if you’ll wait on the line.’

Ren sat staring at the boys’ names on the page. Three boys, aged between seventeen and nineteen, with so much of their lives ahead of them. All Ren could think about was Beau.

‘Guys, I’m taking an early lunch.’ She grabbed her coat. ‘Back in a half-hour – I’m just going to let Misty out in the yard.’

Ren barely remembered the drive home. As soon as she got in the door she went straight to the sofa and sat there, staring at the family photo on the living-room wall. Beau with his gorgeous smile and his long sandy hair and his skinny limbs and his piano fingers. And just his goodness. Ren wanted to stop there. Because she always stopped there. But this time, she broke through the pain barrier and she started to think about the rest: rushing to Beau’s bedroom when she heard her mother scream, her mother’s wild eyes as she turned to her in the doorway, her mother’s arm as she reached out and slammed the bedroom door on her hand, her mother screaming: ‘Orenda, no!’ Every vowel sound was stretched as far as her breath would take it. It was an extraordinary, life-changing scream. Ren’s scream fused with her mother’s, but it was at the shock of being hurt by her. She could not understand why her mother had slammed the door on her. And it was the searing pain of her crushed hand. Ren remembered looking down at the tips of two of her fingers hanging by an almost translucent scrap of skin and pumping blood on to the carpet.

Her mother was screaming for her son. Ren was screaming for her mother. And as she tried the door a second time, her mother screamed again: ‘Orenda, no!’

Ren had run to her parents’ bathroom. She had stood, bawling, at the sink, confused and horrified by her mother. There was no color left in the face looking back at her from the mirror, but all around her seemed to be red. Her hand was throbbing, still pumping out blood.

Why hasn’t Mom come to help me? What did I do? Where’s Beau? Why isn’t he helping? he must have heard me. Where is everyone?

She heard her mother call her again: Orendaaa! Orendaaa! Wrapping her hand in a towel, Ren had run toward her. This time, Beau’s door was open. She was afraid to walk in, as if it was a trap and her mother wanted to hurt her again. But Ren knew there was a reason why the whole world had suddenly turned upside down. She knew something was terribly wrong. Beau was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His mother was gripping her dead son by his face, kissing it and sobbing and wiping her tears from it.

‘He’s dead, Orenda. He’s dead. He’s…’

Ren ran to the kitchen, grabbed their Bakelite phone with the eight-foot cord and dialed 911, pacing up and down the length of the hallway as she told the dispatcher about her big brother. As she put the phone down, her mother was screaming for her again. And from that day on, Ren did not want to be called Orenda ever again.

Beau Bryce was dead. He had taken an overdose. He was nineteen years old, handsome, and smart. He was not selfish. He was not unloved. He was clinically depressed. Some people committed suicide and didn’t leave a note: Beau had written a short story, an allegory in which his family were different characters and Beau was the tortured hero on a quest for something that he had never been able to identify, therefore had never been able to find, no matter how much the other characters had tried to help him. He had crossed kingdoms, climbed mountains, searched caves, swum oceans, yet he had finished, hovering at a cliff edge, alone and confused. And he had taken one more step. He had trusted an empty sky more than he had trusted the ground beneath his feet or the beautiful land or the people who lived in it.

Tears streamed down Ren’s face. She knew the journey Beau had taken, she knew that beautiful terrain, she knew and loved the same characters.

And her greatest fear was that one day she too would trust an empty sky more.

13

Somehow, Ren made it back to work. Gary was standing in the bullpen with a grim look on his face.

‘Not good news,’ he said. ‘Looks like the blood Gartman was covered in the night of the convenience store shooting was Natalie Osgood’s. Her body was found last night in a dumpster off Colfax.’

Ren shook her head. ‘That son-of-a-bitch. Her mama’s worst nightmare has come true.’ She let out a breath.

Robbie called her over to his desk. ‘Ren, I spoke with three real estate agents,’ he said, ‘and Gregory Sarvas did talk to them about selling the house. Like, it was more than just chit-chat.’

‘Jesus,’ said Ren. ‘Yet another wife kept in the dark.’

‘Who’s the other one?’

‘I don’t know – insert celebrity name.’ Ren let out a breath. ‘Catherine Sarvas told me that it was a casual conversation about moving – nothing concrete. And Greg goes off and makes formal enquiries? It’s so patronizing. Did he just disregard her all the time?’

‘It probably worked for them…’ said Colin.

‘Oh, please,’ said Ren. ‘He’s dead, she’s raped. That worked real well.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Colin.

‘I do – keep the little woman in the dark.’

Colin shrugged and turned back to his screen.

‘Do you say this shit on purpose?’ said Ren.

Colin looked up. ‘Some women just want men to take care of everything for them.’

‘There’s a difference between a husband taking the trash out and other bullshit jobs…and not telling you he’s trying to sell your house from under you or, let’s face it, not reporting your rape,’ said Ren. ‘Rape, Colin.’

‘I’m not talking about the rape part.’

‘Oh, well then,’ said Ren. She turned to Robbie. ‘Did Sarvas talk to the real estate people about buying another house in the area?’

‘No,’ said Robbie.

‘Did he mention where he was planning to move to, or when?’

‘No. According to all three real estate agents, Sarvas sounded serious about selling the house. But there were no times, dates, etc.’