The Face of Death

chair is an ugly green, but it looks comfortable and weathered and well-used. Faithful furniture, quietly loved. It faces a twenty-inch television. A foldable dinner-tray stands next to it.

I can imagine Dave Nicholson sitting here at night, watching television, a microwave meal placed on the dinner-tray in front of him. Normal enough, but for some reason, in this place, it's a sad picture. An undercurrent of waiting and depression layers everything. It's as though the furniture should all be draped with sheets, and the house should have a wind blowing through it.

'So listen,' he says, before I can ask him any questions. 'I'm going to tell you something I'm supposed to tell you, and then I'm going to tell you something I'm not supposed to tell you. Then I'm going to do what I was supposed to do.'

'Sir--'

He waves me off. 'Here's what I'm supposed to tell you: 'It's the man behind the symbol, not the symbol, that's important.' Got that?'

His voice is monotonous and matches the hollowness in his eyes.

'Yes, but--'

'Here's the next thing. I threw things off on the Langstrom investigation, steered the conclusions. He told me that the evidence would point to a murder-suicide, as long as I didn't look too hard. All I had to do was accept what was on the surface. So I did.' He sighs. He seems ashamed. 'He needed the Langstrom girl--Sarah--to be left alone. Said he had plans for her. I shouldn't have done it, I know that, but you have to understand--I did it because he has my daughter.'

I freeze, shocked. 'Your daughter?'

Nicholson stares at something above my head, talking almost to himself. 'Her name's Jessica. He took her away from me ten years ago. He made me helpless and he told me what to do, yes he did. He told me that someone would come asking questions, years down the line, and that I was to give them the message I just gave you. If I did all that, and one final thing, he said he'd let her go.' His eyes plead with me.

'You get it, right? I was a good cop, but this was my daughter. '

'Are you saying he took her hostage?'

He points a thick finger at me. 'You make sure she's okay. You make sure he keeps his end of the bargain. I think he will.' He licks his lips, nods too fast. 'I think he will.'

'David. You need to slow down.'

'Nope. I've said enough already. I need to finish up now. One last thing.'

He reaches a hand behind his back. It comes out holding a large revolver. I jump up, followed by Alan. I reach for my weapon, it finds my hand, but I'm not the one Nicholson wants to kill. The barrel finds his own mouth, a brutal thrust, it angles up. I reach toward him. 'No!' I yell.

He closes his eyes and pulls the trigger, and his head explodes in a

'bang' and I am showered in his blood.

I stand there, gaping, as he topples forward from the armchair.

'Jesus!' Alan yells, rushing toward Nicholson.

I stand there and watch, dazed. Outside, the clouds open and the rain begins to fall again.

39

ALAN AND I ARE INSIDE NICHOLSON'S HOME. THE LOCAL COPS are here, wanting to take charge, but I ignore them in my fury. A man--a cop--is dead, and I know his death is much more than a suicide. I want to know why.

I had washed my hands and gloved them, and I can still feel the spots where I scrubbed his blood from my face.

I stalk through the living room, down the hallway, into Nicholson's bedroom. Alan follows.

'What are we looking for, Smoky?' he asks, his voice cautious.

'A God damn explanation,' I snap, my voice hard and furious and cracking around the edges.

The suddenness of it, the awfulness of it, had shocked me like a backhand across the face. My stomach was queasy from the rush of adrenaline. I couldn't get my mind around the death yet, not fully. I only knew that I was enraged. He had done this. It was his fault.

The Stranger. I'm sick of his games and his puzzles and everything else. I want to fucking kill him.

Nicholson's bedroom is like the rest of his house, careless and Spartan. Things are clean enough, but the home has no soul. The walls are bare, the window coverings are cheap and mismatched. He slept here, he ate here, it kept the rain off his head. That was all. I spot a photograph in a frame, on a table next to the bed. Nicholson is in it, smiling, his eyes alive. He has his arms around a young girl, who looks to be about sixteen. She has her father's thick, dark hair. The eyes belong to someone else. A mother's ghost?

Alan looks at the photo as well.

'Looks like a father/daughter picture to me,' he says. I nod, still not speaking.

Alan opens the walk-in closet and begins to rummage around on the shelves. He pauses, a lack of motion, silence.

'Wow,' he says. 'Check this out.'

He walks out of the closet. He has a shoebox in his hands, the top off. I catch a glimpse of Polaroid photographs. Lots of them. Alan takes one out and hands it to me.

The girl is pale and she is nude. In this photograph she appears to be in her early twenties. The photo was taken full-frontal. She stands with her hands clasped behind her, her feet slightly turned in, her gaze averted and despondent. She has large breasts and an unshaven pubic area. She looks exposed and emotionally numb.

I compare this photograph to the one in the frame.

'It's definitely the same girl,' I say.

'This box is full of them.' Alan speaks as he rummages. 'Looks like they're in chronological order. Always nude. Different ages.' He rummages some more. 'Jesus. Based on changes in her face and body, these go back a lot of years.'

'Over ten, I imagine.' I feel deflated. My rage has dissipated, leaving emptiness behind. Alan stares at me, taking this in. He taps a foot and jiggles the shoebox in one giant hand. 'Okay. Okay. Makes sense. He takes Nicholson's daughter hostage. But Nicholson's not just a dad, he's a cop. The perp needs a way to keep Nicholson on a leash, so he provides him with regular proof of life.' Taps his foot harder. 'God damn. Why didn't Nicholson go to the FBI? Why leave his daughter in this guy's hands for that long without doing something?'

'Because he believed him, Alan. He believed that The Stranger would do what he said. If Nicholson deviated from the plan, The Stranger would kill the daughter. If Nicholson stuck to the plan, he'd keep her alive. And he sent Nicholson regular proof that he was keeping his word.'

'I get that, but still--would you have done what Nicholson did?

For as long as he did?'

The answer is instantaneous. I don't have to give it much thought. The possibility of Alexa, alive, or the current reality of her death?

'Probably, yes. If he was convincing enough. Yes.' I look at him.

'What if it was Elaina?'

His foot stops tapping. 'Point taken.'

I stare at the photograph. 'Why? Why Nicholson?'

'Thought we knew that. He needed Nicholson to steer the Langstrom investigation.'

I shake my head. 'Bullshit. I mean, yes, he used him for that purpose--but why take the risk? Why bother? He could have covered his tracks better--hell, he covered them pretty well as it is. Involving Nicholson increased his exposure. Why was The Stranger willing to take that chance?' I run a hand through my hair. 'We need to dig through Nicholson's past.' I pace. 'It's all about the past in this case, we just haven't found the connections yet. Who did I give the job of finding out about Sarah's grandfather to?'

'That'd be me. I haven't gotten to it yet. There was the lead with the Langstrom home, the trust.' He gestures, a way of indicating where we are now and why. 'Nicholson. Things have been moving pretty fast.'

'I know, and I understand, but it's important.'

'Got it.'