met.
I view almost everyone with a cynical eye. I’m too familiar with the secrets people keep behind their cloaks of decency and their bright-toothed smiles. Elaina is different. She’s not perfect, not Pollyanna. She can get angry and she’s had moments of poor judgment, like all of us. But Elaina is the one who came to see me in the hospital after Sands’s attack, when I was lying there in my shock and agony, staring at the white ceiling tile and listening to the cold beeps and hisses of the medical machines. She pushed the protesting nurse aside, and she came and gathered me up in her arms and both made and let me cry. I sobbed myself out against her until I literally passed out, and when I awoke, she was still there.
I love her. She’s like a mother to me.
AD Jones, my boss, is seated next to her. He seems to be tolerating being here, but no more than that. I guess getting married and divorced two times would do that to you. His smile is more of a scowl, and he keeps sneaking glances at his watch. AD Jones has been my longtime mentor, sort of my professional rabbi. He’s too much of a leader to be a real friend, but he’s a great boss.
There are others in the audience: Sarah, now nineteen. A man had chased her through her life, killing anyone and everyone she ever loved. Theresa, her foster sister, sits next to her. Both have suffered more than I have in their short lives, which gives me pause. Perhaps that’s why Bonnie feels such a kinship with them.
The chairs are filled with ex-victims and hunters and a mix of the two. People who deal in suffering and death. I glance at Bonnie again and stifle a sigh.
This is my life. It’s not perfect, but this is my life. And she is loved. I recite the words and even believe them. Mostly. My cell phone chirps, signaling the arrival of a text message. “Turn that off!” Bonnie whispers, outraged.
“Can’t, honey,” I murmur, plucking the phone from where I’d stuffed it in the bouquet I’m holding. She grumbles something by way of reply and stares daggers at me.
I open the phone and freeze as I read the message.
I’m sending something to you, Special Agent Barrett.
I look up and around, scanning the crowd and surrounding area. I see a couple walking on the beach who’ve stopped to take in the wedding. A dedicated surfer is paddling out in what has to be freezing cold water. The hotel nearby has people coming in and out, but I don’t see anyone stationary.
Could have rented a room. Could be watching us from a window.
I look up, but the windows are one way, and besides, the hotel has ten stories and four sides. I close the phone and put it back into the bouquet.
Sending me something? What? And now or later?
I’m more afraid than angry. He knows my cell phone number—not an easy trick—and he might be watching us right now. Us, including Bonnie. I look at her and find her staring right at me, assessing my state of mind with those too-old eyes.
“You okay?” she asks me.
Time to compartmentalize. I can stand here and worry about something beyond my control, or I can do what I’m here for.
I free a hand from the bouquet and touch her cheek. “I’m fine, honey. Where the hell is Callie?”
We left her almost ten minutes ago. She had her dress on; her makeup was perfect; all she needed to do was slip on her shoes and cue up the music.
“Maybe something with Kirby?” Marilyn whispers.
It’s true, the simultaneous absence of Kirby is disturbing. I look at the priest, Father Yates. He smiles at me, the picture of patience. I met Yates during our last case, and our relationship has continued. I am a long-lapsed Catholic, but he seems to be enjoying the chase. He’s another giant, standing almost six-five.
I point this out to Marilyn. “Look at all the guys. They should start a basketball team.”
She fights back another giggle, which gets me going again and earns me another stare-down from my adopted daughter. Then the music starts up, forcing us to stifle it. I watch Kirby hurry down the aisle to her spot in the front. She seems angry.
“That’s not the song Kirby chose,” Bonnie whispers.
What’s playing is “Let It Be,” by the Beatles, the original version, just Paul and his piano. I think it sounds great.
“What did Kirby want?” I ask.
“‘Here Comes the Bride.’”
Well, no wonder, I think. Conformity isn’t exactly Callie’s style.
The woman of the hour appears, and my mental chatter dies away. I stop worrying about the mysterious cell phone message and the sweat sliding down the small of my back. Callie is too beautiful.
She’s wearing a simple long white satin dress. Her red hair is down and wreathed in flowers. It looks like horses made of fire galloping down her back in the afternoon sunlight. She sees me gawping, gives me a wink. My heart squeezes in my chest.
I was always afraid that Callie would end up alone. I’m forty-one now, and Callie is about the same age. We are at our prime, but I’ve seen the future, the coming cusp, the place where the dust begins to settle and the lines begin to deepen. A time will arrive when this thing we’ve devoted our lives to, this chasing of the insane, will reach its end. We’ll lay down our rifles, too old for the hunt. Maybe we’ll teach the newer, younger hunters. Maybe we’ll grow old at home, bouncing grandchildren on our knees, but whatever happens, old age is coming. I can hear the hoofbeats clearer now than when I was a fresh-scrubbed twenty-one.
So I worried about my best friend growing old and alone, and I find myself relieved and happy. She loves a man. He loves her back. They’ll be together now, whatever happens.
The joy I feel is tempered by another, sudden vision. I see Matt and me on our wedding day. I wore white satin too. Matt and I were both incredibly young, a youth I can barely remember. Most of that day is a blur, but three things stand out in clear relief: our love, our laughter, our joy. Who knew that it would end the way it did?
Callie arrives next to Samuel, and he grins at her. It’s the grin of a boy, beautiful on this normally taciturn man. It strips ten years off his age. Callie’s smile in return is shy, which is almost as strange and at least as wonderful. Father Yates begins the ceremony, written by Callie herself. It is a mix of religion and promises, with no trace of humor. This surprises me on some level.
I think about my life now, about the divisions I’ve placed between myself and aspects of the truth. There is the secret I’ve sworn Tommy to keep. Then, of course, there’s the one big secret, the new and devastating one. Who knows what I’m going to do about that? I hide some of these things not out of fear, some of them out of love. This is my life, for better or worse. I feel the sun on my neck and watch my friend fall into happiness.
“You may kiss the bride,” Yates says, smiling, and Samuel does. The breeze finally blows a little, chilly but happy, and the sun shines hard, doing its best to bless the day.
I catch Tommy’s eye, and we grin at each other.
“May I present Mr. and Mrs.—”
Father Yates is cut off by the black Mustang with the tinted windows that roars up in the parking lot about fifteen yards away. It stops, engine rumbling. The door opens and a woman is tossed out onto the asphalt. The door slams shut and the car speeds off. The car has no license plates.
The woman stands up. She’s shaved bald and is wearing a white nightgown. She stumbles toward us. When she’s about five yards away, she puts her hands to her head, turns her face to the sky, and begins to scream.
CHAPTER FOUR
We’re a strange group for the hospital. Callie is still wearing her wedding dress, though she slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. I’m still in my maid of honor gear, and Tommy and Samuel and Alan and James are in their tuxedos.
The woman collapsed after screaming, and we sprang into motion. Callie and I ran over to administer first aid. Tommy and Samuel raced to see who could call 911 first. Kirby went racing after the black Mustang, heels and
