The Face of Death

the door? It's suggestive of him responding to someone entering the house, not someone already here.'

'There's more,' Alan says. 'Blood evidence found in Sarah's bedroom. Testing showed that it was nonhuman. That backs up her story about the dog's head being tossed on her bed. It doesn't fit. Linda cutting the dog's head off is already a stretch. Tossing it into Sarah's room? No fucking way.' I can see anger building in Alan. I don't respond, letting him run his course. 'You know, it's not that this guy was that fucking smart. The cops on this case were lazy. Sloppy. Didn't give a shit. I would have caught the discrepancies with the gun, and I sure as hell would have thought long and hard about the damn dog. Once I heard Sarah's story, and I confirmed that her hand was burned, I would have been all over this house. Fuck.' He boils for another few seconds and then he puffs out his cheeks and exhales, a long sigh.

'Sorry. I'm a little pissed. Could be that none of this had to happen.'

'Maybe not,' I acknowledge. 'It's also possible you would have processed the house and found nothing, and ended up ruling it a suicide too.' I pause as a thought comes to me. 'You know what the really terrible thing is? That it wouldn't have mattered. Sarah had no family. If he didn't leave any forensic evidence--and I'm betting he didn't--then the outcome for Sarah would have been the same even if they believed her.'

'Foster care and all the bad it brought her,' Alan says.

'That's right. Now we have the benefit of hindsight and new information. Let's concentrate on rectifying things.' I turn to Callie. 'I want you to get together with Gene, and then I want you to turn this house inside out. Let's see if we can find something, now that someone's actually looking.'

'My pleasure.'

'In fact,' I say, deciding, 'get on that now. You can take the car, I'll catch a ride with Alan.'

She nods, not responding with words. I sense a brief struggle in her and watch as a hand strays to her jacket pocket. Pain, I realize. It just hit her hard. Out of nowhere. I can tell from her eyes that she knows I know. I also get the message in bright flashing neon: Move on, let it go, privacy is the altar I worship at.

'What do you want me to do?' Barry asks, breaking the moment.

'Not that I don't have plenty to keep me busy. Lots of other dead people out there, and this isn't exactly my jurisdiction. Thankfully, I know a lady detective who works the Malibu precinct.'

'I appreciate that you came when I asked, Barry. Really.'

His smile is faint. He shrugs. 'You never cry wolf, Smoky. So I always come. What else do you need from me?'

'The evidence, all of it. Especially the gun.'

'Will do. You'll have it today.'

'And something else that you might not like.'

'What?'

'I want you to look into the detectives that ran this case back then, discreetly.'

A long pause as he considers what I'm asking, why I'm asking.

'You thinking one of them could be the doer?'

'The work was sloppy. I've seen worse, and I understand why they came to the conclusions they did, but I don't understand why there was never any real follow-up with Sarah. I see notes from Cathy Jones, who was a rookie. I don't see any interview of Sarah by the detectives assigned. I want to know why. If I poke around, it will send up alarms.'

Barry sighs and shakes his head. 'Fuck. Yeah. I'll look into it.'

'Thanks.'

I look at the room, thinking. Taking in the tomb that used to be a home. I nod, satisfied that we can leave, for now.

'Let's go,' I say to Alan.

'Where to?'

'Gibbs. I want to meet this lawyer.'

'If his lips are moving, he's lying, honey-love,' Callie says. We all head out the door.

'What are you doing when your lips are moving, Red?' Barry asks. She smiles. 'Enlightening the world, of course.'

This is Callie, I think. This will always be Callie, pain or pills or not, a wisecracking, taco-loving, donut-dunking friend. We all climb into our respective vehicles and head off in different directions.

'How long will it take us to get there?' I ask.

He checks the clock on the car dash. 'About forty minutes would be my guess.'

'I'm going to spend the time reading.'

I pull the diary pages from my purse.

She is him, I think, and he is her.

Sarah is a microcosm. The Stranger is showing her to us to approximate the story of his own life. Understanding what Sarah went through is the closest I'll come, right now, to understanding what he went through.

I settle back. The clouds start crying again.

Sarah's Story

Part Three

35

Let's take an honesty break.

It occurs to me that writing this as a story is about more than just be- ing a good writer. It's about distance. As long as I write about these things in third person, it's almost like it's happening to someone else, a fictional character or something. Isn't denial great?

If you really want to get deep and start lobbing metaphors, then we can talk about how similar this is to a seriously fucked-up fairy tale. Gretel with no Hansel, and the witch is way too smart. She got me in the oven and she's roasting me slowly. Red Riding Hood, but the wolf caught me and instead of swallowing me whole, he's taking the time to chew his food. So, where were we? Oh yeah: the group home.

The group home was an arena and we were its gladiators. The group home was where I learned how to fight. I learned the differ- ence between a warning and an attack. I learned that you didn't have to be afraid to hurt someone, and that size wasn't the only thing that mattered. I learned to be violent, in a way that I'd never even thought of before. Was that a part of his plan?

I wondered. I wonder. It doesn't matter. It's not really me, anyway, right?

'I SAID, GIVE ME THE PILLOW.'

Sarah set her mouth and forced herself not to look away from Kirsten.

'No.'

The older girl was incredulous.

'What did you say?'

Sarah trembled inside, just a little.

Stand up to her. No more fraidy-cat, remember?

It was easier to say or think than do, that was for sure. Kirsten wasn't just three years older, she was a big girl. She had broader shoulders than most of the other girls in her age group, she had big hands, and she was strong. She liked violence. A lot.

Doesn't matter. You're eight now. Stand up to her.

'I said no, Kirsten. I'm not letting you boss me around anymore.'

An ugly smile curled the bigger girl's lips.

'We'll see about that.'

Sarah had been living at the Burbank Group Home for two years. It was a Lord of the Flies environment, where might made right, and adult oversight was based on punishment, not prevention. It was an atmosphere that nourished the angers and brutality of someone like Kirsten.

Sarah had no friends here. She'd kept her head down and her eyes open. She'd acquiesced to Kirsten's demands to hand over desserts and better bedding and the thousand other small tortures the older girl