The Face of Death

I stare down at the sad girl in the sad Polaroid. It's representative of this case, something going on forever, something terrible, something that can be traced to the past. Nicholson, Sarah's grandfather, a case from the seventies.

Where did they all come together?

I'm talking to Christopher Shreveport, the head of CMU. CMU is the Crisis Management Unit. They deal with response to critical incidents, such as kidnappings and the like.

'She's a hostage?' he asks me.

'Yes. Unless she's dead already.'

Silence. Shreveport isn't cursing, but I can feel him wanting to. 'I'm going to send an agent over there by the name of Mason Dickson.'

'Is that a joke, Chris?'

'Just the one his parents played on him when they named him. He's trained with CMU at Quantico and he's our local go-to guy for kidnappings in your area. He'll do what he can. I wouldn't hold your breath. Something tells me Mason isn't going to be able to do much until you crack the case.'

'Maybe he'll just keep his word and let her go.'

'Everyone should have a dream, Smoky. That one can be yours.'

40

IT'S NOW LATE AFTERNOON. THE RAIN HAS STOPPED AGAIN, BUT the gray clouds won't disperse. The sun is fighting to shine, a losing battle. Everything feels stark and wet and barren. This type of weather emphasizes the concrete nature of Los Angeles in an unflattering way. It matches my mood.

Agent Mason Dickson had shown up approximately fifty minutes after I finished talking to Shreveport. He was a redhead with a baby face sitting on a six-six lanky frame. He was improbable, but he seemed competent enough. We'd briefed him, handed him the shoebox of Polaroids, and left, feeling impotent about it all. Alan gets a call on his cell as we pull into the FBI building parking lot. He murmurs a few times.

'Thanks,' he says, and then hangs up. 'Sarah Langstrom is getting released tomorrow,' he tells me. I tap my purse with a finger, thinking, uneasy.

'Elaina talked to me yesterday,' I say. 'I think she wants Sarah to come live with you guys.'

A sad smile crosses his lips. The shrug is infinitesimal.

'Yeah. She talked to me about it. I exploded, said no way. Really put my foot down.'

'And?'

'And we'll be taking Sarah.' He looks out the windshield, his eyes finding the gray clouds that just won't go away. 'I can't say no to her, Smoky. I was never very good at it. Post-cancer, I can't seem to do it at all.'

'Can I ask you something, Alan?'

'Always.'

'Did you ever decide? About whether you're going to leave the job, I mean.'

He doesn't answer right away. Keeps gazing out the windshield, gathering his words carefully, like a wheat farmer gathering his bushels by hand.

'You ever watch any of those cold case real crime shows?'

'Sure. Of course.'

'Me too. You know what always strikes me about those shows?

That so many of the cops they interview about old cases are young and retired. I mean, it's rare to see a really old guy who's still on the job.'

'I hadn't thought about it until now.' And I hadn't. But as I do, I realize he's right.

He turns to me. 'You know why? Because working homicides is dangerous, Smoky. I'm not talking about physical danger. I'm talking about spiritual danger.' Waves a hand. 'Mental danger if you don't believe in the soul. Whatever. The point is, you look in that direction too long, you run a risk of never recovering from what you see.' He hits a fist into his palm, lightly. 'I mean, ever. I've seen some shit, Smoky . . .' He shakes his head. 'Saw a half-eaten baby, once. Mommy took a bad hit of acid and got hungry. That's the case that made me an alcoholic.'

I start at this. 'I didn't know,' I say.

He shrugs. 'Before my Bureau days. You know what got me to quit drinking?' He looks away. 'Elaina. I got soused one night and came home at three A.M. She told me I needed to stop. I--' He grimaces. Sighs. 'I grabbed her by the arm, told her to mind her own business, and then I passed out on the couch. Woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon. Elaina was cooking breakfast, taking care of me like she always did, as though nothing had happened. But something had happened. She was wearing this sleeveless comfort-shirt she liked, and she had a bunch of bruises on her arm. Bruises from where I'd grabbed her.' He rests for a moment, gathering another few bushels. I wait, mesmerized. 'That mom who ate her baby came around, of course. When she realized what she'd done, she . . . shrieked. I'm talking about a sound a human being shouldn't be able to make, Smoky. Like a monkey that'd been set on fire. She shrieked and once she started, she never stopped. Well, that's how I felt when I saw those bruises on that lovely woman's arm. I felt like shrieking. You understand?'

'Yes.'

He turns to look at me.

'I quit the booze and I bounced back. Because of Elaina. There have been some other bad times, and I've always bounced back. Because of Elaina, always because of Elaina. She's . . . she's my most precious thing.' He coughs once, a little self-conscious. 'When she got sick last year, and that psycho targeted her, I was afraid, Smoky. Afraid of getting to a place where I needed her but she was gone. If that happened, I'd never make it back. It's all a balancing act, you know? Knowing how far I can go out, how much I can see, and still make it back to her. One day I'm going to say it's enough, and I hope I know when it's right.' He smiles at me. It's a real smile, but it's too complex to be called 'happy.' 'The answer to your question is that for now I'm here, but one day I won't be and I don't know when that day will come.'

We pass through security, and are moving through reception when a fit, vibrant, thirtyish-looking blond woman with a bright smile places herself in front of us. She holds out a hand for me to shake. She almost crackles with confidence and energy.

'Agent Barrett? Kirby Mitchell.'

I start, and then realize that it must be past five-thirty by now. I had forgotten.

Ah, yes, the killer, I want to say. Pleased to meet you--but should I end that with a question mark? Time will tell, I guess. Instead, I smile and shake her hand and give her a once-over. Kirby in person is a match for her phone voice. She's attractive and slender, perhaps five foot seven, with blond hair that may or may not belong to her, twinkling blue eyes, and a perpetual smile composed of over-bright teeth. She has the look of someone who spent her early twenties as a fun-loving beach bunny, hanging out with surfers, drinking beer next to bonfires, sleeping with guys as blond as she is and who smelled of seawater and surf wax and maybe a little bit of the Mary Jane. The kind of girl who was always ready to slip on a cocktail dress at five on a Friday. It would have been black and short and she would have danced till the place closed down. I had had friends like her, wildness in a bottle.

Except that she's a bodyguard, and per Tommy, an ex-killer. The disparity of these things both intrigues and concerns me.

'Pleased to meet you,' I manage.

I introduce her to Alan.

She grins and punches him on the arm, playful. 'Big guy! Do you find that a help or a hindrance? Doing your job, I mean?'

'Help, mostly,' he replies, bemused. He rubs his arm where she hit him, a look of surprise on his face. 'Hey, that hurt.'

'Don't be a baby,' Kirby says. She winks at me.

'We're heading to our offices,' I say.

'Lead the way, FBI people.'