Some might wonder why so many so fast. I don't. In many ways, the missing are far far worse than the dead. The missing are a maybe: Maybe they are still alive. Maybe they are not. The missing prevent closure, disallow true grief. That maybe ensures that the families are always looking, forever grasping at straws of hope. I brought the news to a mother, once, that a daughter who'd gone missing three years earlier had been found dead. She wept, of course, but it's what she said that cut me the deepest.
'It's been so hard not knowing,' she'd stammered through her tears. 'One time--oh God--one time I remember being weak, and just wanting it to end, even if that meant she was dead.'
I had watched her eyes widen as she truly saw what it was that she'd just said, that she'd wished, however briefly, for her daughter's death. The impact of this realization on her is something I'll never forget.
Keening is a kind of vocal lament that is traditional in Scotland and Ireland. In older days, before it was outlawed by the Catholic Church, it was done as a part of the wake. A woman or women would be hired to list the genealogy of the deceased, to praise them, and to emphasize the pain of the survivors. She (or they) would do this vocally, often wailing, and using physical movements such as clapping or rocking back and forth. It was a verbal expiation, designed to do justice to the fact of the loss of life. I thought of this then, because that's what I watched this woman do. She keened. I think of it now, all those families. Keening. Eighty, just an incredible number, impossible to really get your mind around in terms of the human impact.
'I'm following up with all of the local law enforcement,' James says. 'I've made myself the sole point of contact. I'll have them assume any of our confirmed missings are a homicide, and get them to put their best detectives on it. Anything found will get funneled through me, and I'll collate it and add it to our database on these victims.'
'We have a database?'
He points to his computer. 'I wrote one.'
'Good work, James.'
'I know.'
He turns away from me, a dismissal.
The door to the office swings open and Callie comes marching in with a big map of the U.S., mounted on foam-core. Kirby is following her, jabbering away.
'So we're good on the flowers? The price is fine?'
'The price is wonderful, Kirby. How about the cake?'
'I'm not fucking the cake guy. He's got back hair.'
'Very funny. The pricing?'
'It's under budget. Oh, and good news on the photographer. There's a guy I used to know. We worked together, stuff like that. He used to do surveillance, but he's good with a camera and, hey, it's kind of the same thing, right?'
I watch Callie mull over the wisdom of letting Kirby bring an old work buddy to her wedding, given Kirby's background.
'Fine.'
'Bridal pragmatism wins again,' Alan opines. 'That's going to be some wedding. Kirby will have fucked or threatened half the vendors, and the rest will be a collection of ex-mercenaries she used to know.'
'Not ex,' Kirby says. 'A lot of them are still on the market.'
'I hate to break this up,' I say, 'but--Callie?'
'Hey, I'm outie,' Kirby says, 'I know what I need for now. See you later Callie-babe.'
'Yes, please call me later.'
'I'm only up till four in the morning,' Kirby chirps. 'Girl needs her beauty sleep, you know?'
Callie holds up the map for us to see.
'I got James to print out a list of all the locations of our victims for me, and I marked them with pushpins.'
We crowd around to get a look.
'I see we have a few clusters,' Alan says. He points to Los Angeles, where there are over twenty. 'And here.' Las Vegas, Nevada.
'Sun and sin,' Callie says.
The rest are spread out among the Preacher's other target states. Some are in cities anyone would recognize, others are in small towns I've never heard of. The overall effect is sobering.
'Like a fucking forest,' Alan growls, an echo of my own thoughts.
'Excuse me,' Kirby says. She hadn't left, after all. 'Why is this name on this board?'
She's pointing to one of the Los Angeles victims. Willow Thomas.
'Why?' I ask.
The smile she gives me is mirthless and terrible. It puts me on immediate alert.
'Please answer the question.'
Her tone is mild. She could be someone asking about the weather. But the leopard eyes have appeared, and they are cold, cold, cold. This is the absolute indifference of a hired killer, the kind who shoots a man not because he was a particularly bad man, but because someone wanted him dead and was willing to pay to make it so.
'Haven't you been watching the news, honey-love?'
Kirby flicks her gaze at Callie, then back to me.
'Now, if I'd been watching the news, I guess I wouldn't be asking the question, would I, Callie?'
The fact that Kirby uses Callie's name without adding any twist to it heightens my unease. Her voice is still mild, the chide she throws at Callie just a languid 'pshaw' of a slap, but the air feels electric and dangerous.
What the hell?
'There's a man,' I say, watching her for a reaction. 'We think he's been killing women for the last twenty years. We're pretty sure the names on the board belong to his victims.'
'Victims? As in dead?'
'Yes.'
She walks over to me and puts her arm around my shoulders. It's anything but friendly, an intense and uncomfortable closeness.
'And?' she whispers, her mouth near my ear. 'Do we know who this man is?' Her words could have been carved from ice, they're so cold.
'Not yet.' I pull away and look at her directly. 'Not sure I'd tell you if I did.'
She stares at me for what seems like forever with that arctic gaze.
'Can I talk to you?' she asks me. 'Alone?'
She walks toward my office without waiting for an answer. I turn to Alan, Callie, and James.
'Not a clue,' Callie says.
'I never know what's going on in that psycho's head,' Alan says. Only James is silent.
WE'RE SEATED IN MY OFFICE with the door closed. I am waiting for Kirby to start talking. The fact that she's not is unnatural. The wind blows, Kirby talks; it's one of the axioms of life. She's sitting in the chair that faces my desk. She's picking her lip and looking off. She gives me a lopsided smile.
'If you're waiting for me to lose it, you're going to be waiting for a loooooooooong time, Smoky.'
The attempt at flip, something she's normally so good at, right now seems less than genuine.
'I think I already did see you lose it.'
She scrutinizes me, flashes a smile and shrugs.
'Well . . . maybe I had a little bit of a reaction there.'
'Cut the shit, Kirby. I appreciate what you did for me in the bathroom. Let me return the favor.'
She shakes a finger at me. 'Now, now, I don't let anyone behind the curtain, Smoky. You should know that.'
'Tell me about Willow Thomas. Who was she? Who was she to you?'
Again, the lip picking. I've never seen Kirby this wordless or evasive. She's generally about as subtle as a two-year-old.
'Willow was . . . a friend of a friend. She was a civilian. Always. She was born innocent and probably died that way. She was a puppy dog, a kitty cat, too bright eyed and bushy tailed for the world you and I live in, you know? She wasn't like me or my friend. We were never civilians. We came out ready to rock and roll, prepared for
