Annie and I shared one of the most intimate relationships a person can have: friendship while you go from child to adult. The types of experiences and memories you take with you through life, all the way to the grave.
What happened after was what happens all the time. We graduated from high school. I was with Matt by then. She'd met a guy and decided to ride around the country with him before going to college. I didn't wait and went straight to UCLA. We did what everyone does, swore to stay in touch twice a week and forever, and then did what everyone does, got caught up in our own lives and didn't speak for nearly a year. One day I was walking out of class . . . and there she was. She looked wild, and beautiful, and I felt joy and pain and longing twang through me like a chord plucked from a Gibson guitar.
'How's things, college girl?' she asked, eyes twinkling. I didn't respond, but I gave her one hell of a long hug. We went out to lunch, and she told me all about her adventures. They'd traveled through fifty states on almost no money, seen and done a lot, had enough sex in enough different places to last a lifetime. She smiled a secret smile, and then placed her hand on the table.
'Check it out,' she said.
I looked, saw the engagement ring, gasped like I was supposed to, and we giggled and talked about the future, about the plans for her wedding. It was like being back in high school.
I was her maid of honor, and she was mine. She moved up to San Francisco with Robert, while Matt and I stayed in LA. Things drifted, but we'd always manage to find time every six to eight months to place a call, and whenever we did, we were back there again, that first day we'd played hooky, free and young and happy.
Robert was a flake, who eventually left her. Some years later, I ran a background check on him, hoping to find that he was failing and miserable in his life. I found instead that he had died in a car accident. Why Annie had never shared this with me, I still don't know. When I started working for the Bureau, and by that I mean really working, the time between calls drifted to a year. Then a year and a half. I agreed to be her daughter's godmother but am ashamed to say that I met her child only once, and she never met mine. What can I say? Life moved on, the one thing it always does.
Some might judge that. I don't care. All I know is that whether it was six months or two years, whenever we talked, it was like no time had passed at all.
About three years ago her father died. I went up there right away and stayed for over a week, helping. Or trying to. Annie was older and drained and full of pain. I remember being struck by a single irony: Her agony and her age had made her more beautiful than ever. The night after the funeral, after she'd put her daughter to bed, we sat on the floor of her bedroom, and she cried in my arms while I whispered into her hair. I did not hear from her when Matt died, but I didn't wonder about this. Annie had this quirk: She abhorred the news, whether in print or on TV, and I never called to tell her what happened. I still don't know why. I thought about Annie on my way to the Bureau offices. I thought and I wondered at my reaction to her death. I felt sad. Devastated even. But it didn't seem as monumental, emotionally, as it should be. I've just arrived, and I just realized that I've lost all of my youth now. The love of my youth, the friend of my youth. It's all gone. Maybe losing Matt and Alexa was just too much. Maybe that's why I don't feel as much as I think I should about Annie.
Maybe I just don't have any more pain to give.
'What the hell are you doing here, Smoky?'
It's SAC Jones, my old sponsor. Except now he's Assistant Director Jones. I'm surprised to find him here. It's not that he's not dedicated or hesitates at stepping into the trenches; it's that he simply doesn't
'Callie called me, sir. She told me about Annie King and mentioned that the killer left a message for me. I'm going with.'
He shakes his head. 'Oh no you're not. No fucking way. Aside from the fact that she's your friend, which means you can't touch this case with a ten-foot pole, you are not cleared to go back to work.'
Callie is trying to eavesdrop, and Jones notices this. He gestures me toward his car, lighting a cigarette as we walk. Everyone's out in front of the Bureau offices, getting ready to head to the Van Nuys private airport. He takes a deep drag and I watch him, wistful. I forgot to bring my own.
'Can I have one of those, sir?'
His eyebrows arch in surprise. 'I thought you quit.'
'I took it up again.'
He shrugs and gives me the pack. I pull out one of the cigarettes, and he lights it for me. I, too, take a nice, long puff. Yum.
'Listen, Smoky. You know how it goes. You've been around long enough. Your shrink keeps the content of what you guys talk about in complete confidence. But he does submit a report, once a month, giving an overview of where he thinks you're at.'
I nod. I know this is true. I don't take it as any kind of violation. It's not about privacy or rights. It's about whether or not I can be trusted to represent the FBI. Or hold a gun.
'I got a report yesterday. He says you still have a ways to go and are not ready to go back to work. Period. Now you show up at six in the morning and want to go to the scene of a murdered friend?' He shakes his head, vehement. 'Like I said: no fucking way.'
I draw on the cigarette, weighing it in my fingers as I watch him, and try and figure out what to say. I realize that I know why he's here. Because of me. Because the killer wrote to me. Because he's worried.
'Look, sir. Annie King was my friend. Her daughter is still alive up there. She's got no other family, her dad's dead, and I'm her godmother. I'd be flying up there anyway. All I'm asking the Bureau for is the courtesy of a ride.'
He draws smoke down the wrong pipe at this, and actually sputters.
'Puh-leeeze! Nice try, but who the fuck do you think you're talking to, Agent Barrett?' He stabs a finger at me. 'I know you better than that, Smoky. Don't bullshit me. Your friend is dead--and I'm sorry about that, by the way--and you want to go up and get yourself on the case. That's the truth. And I can't allow it. One, you're personally involved, and that excludes you from the get-go. That's straight from the manual. Two, you're probably suicidal, and I can't allow you to step in the middle of a crime scene in that condition.'
My mouth hangs open. Then my words are filled with fury and shame. 'Jesus Christ! Do I have a sign hanging from my neck that says
His eyes soften at this. 'Nah, no sign. It's just that we all know we'd think about it if any of us experienced even half of what you did.' He tosses the cigarette to the pavement and doesn't look at me when he continues speaking. 'I thought about smoking on my gun, once.'
As with Callie at lunch yesterday, I am speechless. He catches this and nods. 'It's true. I lost a partner, about twenty-five years ago, when I was on the LAPD. Lost him because I made a bad decision. I led us into a building without backup, and it was more than we could handle. He paid the price. Family man, beloved husband and father of three. It was my fault, and I thought about correcting that inequity for almost eight months.' He looks at me, and there's no pity in his gaze. 'It's not that you have a sign hanging from your neck, Smoky. It's that most of us think we would have blown our brains out by now if we were in your position.'
This is the essence of AD Jones. No small talk, no dancing around things. It fits him well. You always know where you stand with him. Always. I can't meet his eyes. I throw down my cigarette, half smoked, and grind it out with my foot. I'm doing some careful thinking about what to say next. 'Sir. I appreciate what you're saying. And you're right, on just about every point, except one.' I look back up at him. I know he'll want to see my eyes when I say what I say next, to gauge the truth of my words. 'I have thought about it. A lot. But yesterday? Yesterday was the first day I knew for sure I wasn't going to do it. You know what changed?' I point at my team, standing and waiting on the steps. 'I went and saw those guys, for the first time since it happened. I went and saw them, and they were still there, and they accepted me. Well, the jury's still out on James--but the point is, they didn't pity me or make me feel like a broken piece. I can tell you, flat out, that I'm no longer suicidal. And the reason is that I stepped foot back into the Bureau.'
He's listening. I can tell I haven't won him over, but I do have his attention. 'Look, I'm not ready to take NCAVC Coord back over. I'm sure as hell not ready to be in any tactical situation of any kind. All I'm asking is that you let me dip my toe in the water. Let me go up, make sure Bonnie is taken care of, and let me just lend my mind to this thing, just a little. Callie will still run things. I won't be armed, and I promise, if I think it's too much, I'm out.'
