The Face of Death

talk to you.'

'She asked for me by name?'

'Yep.'

I'm silent, processing.

'Really sorry about this, Smoky.'

'Don't worry about it. We were just about to take a break, anyway. Give me the address and Callie and I will meet you there soonest.'

I jot down the address and hang up.

The man had gotten it wrong: Death doesn't take a holiday, apparently. Par for the course. As always, I am living my life on multiple levels: Make this a home, decide if I am going to leave this home and go to Quantico, go stop a young woman from blowing her brains out. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, hurrah for me. I look at Bonnie. 'Sweetheart--' I begin, but stop as she nods her head. It's okay, go, she is saying.

I look at Elaina. 'Elaina--'

'I'll watch Bonnie.'

Relief and gratitude, that's what I feel.

'Callie--'

'I'll drive,' she says.

I crouch down, facing Bonnie. 'Do me a favor, sweetheart?'

She gives me a quizzical look.

'See if you can figure out what we should do with all those stuffed animals.'

She grins. Nods.

'Cool.' I straighten up, turn to Callie. 'Let's go.'

Bad things are waiting. I don't want them to get impatient.

7

'ALL TUCKED AWAY,' CALLIE MUSES AS WE PULL ONTO THE SUB- urban street in Canoga Park.

She's talking to herself more than to me, but as I look around, I understand the observation. Canoga Park is a part of Los Angeles County. Los Angeles doesn't provide a lot of distance between the suburbs and the city proper. You can be on a street lined with businesses, drive two blocks, and find yourself in a residential neighborhood. It was a casual transformation; traffic lights gave way to stop signs and things just got more quiet. The city hustled nearby, never stopping, always there, while the homes were here, 'tucked away.'

The street we'd turned onto was in one of those neighborhoods, but it has lost that quiet feeling. I spot at least five cop cars, along with a SWAT van and two or three unmarked vehicles. The obligatory helicopter is circling above.

'Thank God we still have daylight,' Callie remarks, looking up at the helicopter. 'I can't stand those blinding spotlights.'

People are everywhere. The braver ones are standing on their lawns, while the more timid peek out from behind window curtains. It's funny, I think. People talk about crime in urban areas, but all the best murders happen in the suburbs.

Callie parks the car on the side of the street.

'Ready?' I ask her.

'Born ready, bring it on, pick your cliche,' she says. As we exit the car, I see Callie grimace. She places a hand on the roof of the car to steady herself.

'Are you all right?' I ask.

She waves away my concern. 'Residual pain from getting shot, nothing I can't handle.' She reaches into a jacket pocket and pulls out a prescription bottle. 'Vicodin, today's mother's little helper.' She pops the top and palms a tablet. Downs it. Smiles. 'Yummy.'

Callie had been shot six months ago. The bullet had nicked her spine. For one very tense week we weren't sure she was going to walk again. I thought she'd recovered fully.

Guess I was wrong.

Wrong? She carries her Vicodin around with her like a box of Tic Tacs!

'Let's see what all the shouting is about, shall we?' she asks.

'Yep,' I reply.

But don't think I'm going to let this go, Callie. We head over to the perimeter. A twentysomething patrolman stops us. He's a good-looking kid. I can sense his excitement at being a part of this law-enforcement cacophony. I like him right away; he sees the scars on my face and almost doesn't flinch.

'Sorry, ma'am,' he says. 'I can't let anyone in right now.'

I fish out my FBI ID and show it to him. 'Special Agent Barrett,' I say. Callie does the same.

'Sorry, ma'am,' he says again. 'And, ma'am,' he says to Callie.

'Don't sweat it,' Callie replies.

I spot Alan standing in a cluster of suits and uniforms. He towers above them all, an imposing edifice of a human being. Alan is in his mid-forties, an African-American man who can only be described as gargantuan. He's not obese--just big. His scowl can make an interrogation room seem like a small and dangerous place for a guilty man. Life loves irony, and Alan is no exception. For all his size, he is a thoughtful man-mountain, a brilliant mind in a linebacker's body. He combines meticulous precision with near-infinite patience. His attention to detail is legendary. One of the best testaments to his character is the fact that Elaina is his wife, and she adores him. Alan is the third member of my four-person team, the oldest and most grounded. He told me when Elaina had been diagnosed with cancer that he was considering leaving the FBI so that he could spend more time with her. He hasn't brought it up since, and I haven't pushed him on it, but I am never really unaware of it. Callie popping pills, Alan thinking of retiring--maybe I should leave. Let them rebuild the team from scratch.

'There she is,' I hear Alan say.

I start to catalogue the various reactions to my face and then let it go. Take it or leave it, boys.

One of the men steps forward, putting a hand out to shake mine. The other hand, I note, grips an MP5 submachine gun. He's dressed in full SWAT regalia--body armor, helmet, boots. 'Luke Dawes,' he says.

'SWAT commander. Thanks for coming.'

'No problem,' I reply. I point to Alan. 'Do you mind if I have my guy fill me in? No offense intended.'

'None taken.'

I turn to Alan and push aside all my own internal chatter, letting the simplicity of action and command take over. 'Hit me,' I say.

'A call came into 911 about an hour and a half ago from the next door neighbor. Widower by the name of Jenkins. Jenkins says that the girl--Sarah Kingsley--had stumbled into his front yard, dressed in a nightgown, covered in blood.'

'How did he know she was in the front yard?'

'His living room is in the front of the house and he keeps his drapes open until he goes to bed. He was watching TV, saw her out of the corner of his eye.'

'Go on.'

'He's shook, but he musters up enough courage to go out and see what the problem is. Said she was unfocused--his word--and mumbling something about her family being murdered. He tries to get her to come into his house, but she screams and runs off, reenters her own home.'

'I take it he was wise enough not to follow her?'

'Yeah, the heroics only went as far as his own front yard. He ran back inside, made the call. A patrol car happens to be nearby, so they come over to check it out. The officers'--he checks his notepad again--'Sims and Butler, arrive, poke their heads in the front door--which was wide open--and try to get her to come back out. She's unresponsive. After talking it over, they decide to go in and get her. Dangerous maybe, but neither of them are rookies, and they're worried about the girl.'